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POEMS.     i6mo,  gilt  top,  $1.25. 
VERSES    ALONG    THE   WAY.      i6mo. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK. 


VERSES  ALONG  THE  WAY 


BY 


MARY    ELIZABETH    BLAKE 

AUTHOR  OF  "  POBMS,"  "  ON  THE  WING,"  "  JjAMBLING  TALKS," 
"MEXICO,"  "A  SUMMER  HOLIDAY  IN  EUROPE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN   AND   COMPANY 
(Cfoe  RtoetsiDe  Prc0& 
1890 


Copyright,  1890, 
BY  MARY   E.  BLAKE. 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass. ,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Company. 


To 
MY   DEAR   FATHER   AND   MOTHER. 


CONTENTS. 


ALONG   THE   WAY. 

PAGB 

A  GREETING n 

JUNE 14 

AN  ORIOLE 15 

IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

I.   A  BREEZY  DAY 16 

II.   UNDER  THE  PINES 18 

III.   A  MOUNTAIN  SABBATH  ....  18 

DISCORDANCE 20 

ON  THE  SEA. 

I.   FIRST  EVENING 22 

II.   A  CALM  DAY 23 

III.  STORM 24 

IV.  HOMEWARD  BOUND 25 

IN  MAY  TIME 27 

AVENGED 29 

THE  EQUINOCTIAL 31 

IN  A  CITY  STREET 33 

AT  TWENTY-ONE 35 

THE  DAWNING  o'  THE  YEAR 38 

IN  MIDWINTER 42 

TRANSITION 44 


iv  CONTENTS. 

DAISIES 45 

A  BIRTHDAY 48 

Two  FESTIVALS 50 

THE  DARK  o'  THE  YEAR 51 

SPRING'S  AWAKING 53 

AT  A  NAMELESS  SOLDIER'S  GRAVE  .       .       .       .55 

A  LITANY  OF  FLOWERS 58 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS 59 

How  IRELAND  ANSWERED 62 

DECORATION  DAY 67 

WOMEN  OF  THE  REVOLUTION         .        .        .        .  71 
FOR  THE  Two  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTIETH  ANNIVER 
SARY  OF  THE  CHARITABLE  IRISH  SOCIETY        .  79 

A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL 81 

JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY 82 

SONNETS   AND   EPIGRAMS. 

EASTER  DAY 87 

RAIN  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS 88 

ISABELLA  OF  CASTILE 89 

IN  MID  OCEAN 91 

A  BEETHOVEN  SYMPHONY       92 

PALM  SUNDAY  AT  SEA 93 

NOVEMBER 94 

JUSTIN  MCCARTHY 95 

To  ONE  BELOVED 96 

THE  GIFT  OF  VISION 97 

MORNING  IN  THE  CITY 98 

HOSTAGES 99 

NANTASKET 100 

IN  ANSWER  .                               -                                .  101 


CONTENTS.  V 

SALVE  ! 102 

CONTRADICTION 103 

SEQUENCE 104 

KISMET 105 

AT  THE   CHILDREN'S   HOUR. 

THE  LITTLE  SAILOR  Kiss 109 

THE  NAME  OF  MARY in 

A  SONG  WITHOUT  WORDS       .        .        .        .  112 

HELD  IN  SIGHT 114 

THE  FIRST  STEP 116 

To  A  LITTLE  LAD 119 

A  VALENTINE 121 

THE  WEE  THING 123 

LOST 125 

THE  FIRST  BATTLE 127 

IN   LIGHTER   MOOD. 

AN  ENIGMA 131 

A  CHARACTER  SKETCH 133 

CONSTANTIA  INCONSTANS 135 

WITH  A  SILKEN  PURSE 136 

CAFE  NOIR 137 

To    A   VERY    LEARNED    LADY  WITH   A   KNITTING 

BASKET 138 

ON  A  THERMOMETER 140 

A  CONUNDRUM 141 

WITH  A  FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER      ....      142 

WITH  A  PICTURE  OF  LORELEI 143 

PHILOSOPHY 144 

INDIAN  SUMMER 145 


Vi  CONTENTS. 

A  DEFINITION 146 

A  PHOTOGRAPH 147 

MARCH 149 

A   GROUP   OF   MEXICAN    POEMS. 

GUADALUPE  (Miguel  Ulloa) 155 

ELENA  (Angus  tin  Lazo) 156 

ROSARIO  (Manuel  Flares) 157 

JOSEFINA  (Luis  Alba)  158 

VALENTINA  (Miguel  Ulloa) 159 

AMELIA  (Aurelio  Garay) 160 

CONCHA  (Luis  G.  Ortiz) 161 

MARIA  (M.  C.) 162 

VIRGINIA  (Aurflio  Garay) 163 

AN  ANSWER  (Miguel  Ulloa) 164 


ALONG  THE  WAY. 


A  GREETING. 

IRELAND  !     Mother  unknown, 
Sitting  alone  by  the  water, 
Lift  up  your  eyes  to  your  own, 

Stretch  out  your  arms  to  your  daughter  ! 
Many  and  many  a  day  have  I  longed  for  your 

green  robe's  splendor, 
Your   eyes  of  the  deep   sea  gray,  your   strong 

love  patient  and  tender ; 
For  the  croon  of  the  welcoming  voice,  and  the 

smile  half  joy  and  half  sadness. 
Soul  of   my  soul   rejoice,  for   this   is   the  hour 
of  thy  gladness ! 

Sure  if  I  never  had  heard 

What  land  had  given  me  birth, 
And  cradled  the  spirit's  bird 

On  its  first  weak  flight  to  earth  ; 
If  I  never   had  heard  the  name  of   thy  sorrow 

and  strength  divine, 

Or  felt  in  my  pulses  the  flame  of  the  fire  they 
had  caught  from  thine, 


12  A    GREETING. 

I  would  know  by  this  rapture  alone  that 
sweeps  through  me  now  like  a  flood, 

That  the  Irish  skies  were  my  own,  and  my 
blood  was  the  Irish  blood  ! 

Proud  did  I  hold  my  race, 

Yet  knew  not  what  pride  might  dare ; 
Fair  did  I  deem  thy  face, 

But  never  one-half  so  fair ; 
Like    a    dream   with    deep    happiness    fraught 

that  some  happier  dawn  makes  true, 
Nothing  was  glad  in  my  thought  but  gladdens 

still  more  in  you  — 
From  ivied  tower  and  wall,  and  primrose  pale 

on  the  lea, 

To  vales  where  the  bright  streams  call  to  the 
lilting  bird  in  the  tree. 

How  can  I  frame  the  thought 

That  sets  all  my  soul  aglow ! 
How  can  I  speak  as  I  ought 

The  longing  that  moves  me  so  ! 
My  comrades  laugh  like  a  boy  whose  heart  to 

pleasure  is  stirred, 

But  my  heart  is  weeping  with  joy  while  my 
lips  speak  never  a  word ; 


A    GREETING.  13 

Here  where  the  green  hills  start  from  the 
breast  of  the  deep  blue  water, 

Ireland  !  land  of  my  heart,  stretch  out  your 
arms  to  your  daughter ! 


JUNE. 

MARCH  is  a  trumpet  flower, 

And  April  a  crocus  wild ; 
May  is  a  harebell  slender 

With  the  clear  blue  eyes  of  a  child; 
July  is  the  cup  of  a  tulip 

Where  gold  and  crimson  meet ; 
And  August  a  tiger  lily, 

Tawny  with  passion  and  heat ; 
But  Thou  art  the  rose  of  the  world, 

Precious,  and  glowing,  and  sweet. 

Fair  is  the  flush  of  the  dawning 

Over  the  face  of  the  sky ; 
Sweet  is  the  tangle  of  music 

From  wild  birds  fluttering  by; 
Brilliant  the  glow  of  the  sunset, 

And  graceful  the  bound  of  the  deer; 
Glad  is  the  laugh  of  the  children, 

Ringing  like  joy  bells  clear ; 
But  what  can  compare  with  thy  beauty 

O  red,  red  rose  of  the  year ! 


AN  ORIOLE. 

A  DAZZLE  of  yellow,  a  quiver  of  wings, 

A    flash    like    a    beam    from    the    sun's    rays 

shaken  ; 

And  high  on  the  tree  tops  an  oriole  sings, 
Dizzy  with  gladness,  like  hearts  afloat 
On  an  ocean  of  love  in  a  fairy  boat, 
While  the  joy  bells  of  life  unto  bliss  awaken. 

Only  an  instant,  and  then  away 

Like  the  flight  of  a  thought  through  the  sum 
mer  weather; 

But  still  and  forever  the  song  shall  stay ; 

To  wake  in  my  soul  through  the  winter's 
night 

The  rapturous  thrill  of  that  swift  delight, 

When  it  and  the  oriole  sang  together. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 
I. 

A    BREEZY   DAY. 

THE  day  was  dark  and  glum  as  when 
Gay  youth  sees  age  advancing  ; 

There  came  a  wee  breeze  up  the  glen 
And  set  the  leaves  a-dancing. 

It  lilted  to  the  nodding  grass, 
It  whistled  through  the  rushes, 

It  hustled  all  the  bonny  buds 
Among  the  bonny  bushes. 

It  tossed  the  mists  above  the  hills, 
It  pulled  the  clouds  asunder, 

And  let  the  shining  sky  above 
Look  down  in  blue-eyed  wonder. 

Off  flew  the  frown  from  Nature's  face, 
And  smiles  began  to  wimple  ; 

The  little  birds  laughed  loud  and  shrill 
Above  the  pool's  blue  dimple. 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS.  If 

Care  .flew  as  fly  the  mists  of  dawn 
Before  the  sun's  light  glancing,  — 

And  all  because  that  saucy  breeze 
Had  set  the  green  leaves  dancing. 

So  blithely  glanced  their  twinkling  feet 

In  such  a  maze  of  gladness, 
So  loud  the  piping  winds  and  sweet, 

That  oft  in  hours  of  sadness 

When  weary  falls  the  winter  night 

Upon  some  lost  endeavor, 
Some  memory  dear  of  past  delight, 

Some  fair  dream  gone  forever, 

My  soul  afloat  on  fancy's  wings 

Shall  seek  this  spot  entrancing 
And  hear  the  breeze  that  pipes  and  thrills 

And  see  the  green  leaves  dancing. 


1  8  IN  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

II. 

UNDER   THE    PINES. 

When  the  Winter's  rime 
Clogs  the  wheels  of  time 
And  the  earth's  warm   blood    grows   thin   and 


Death  doth  conquer  life  on  sea  and  shore,  — 

Summer  being  o'er,  — 
Only  for  the  sunshine  do  we  pray. 

When  the  Summer's  rune 

Sets  the  world  in  tune, 
Gives  it  voice  for  speech  and  eyes  for  sight, 
God  !  we  thank  Thee  !  —  comes  a  time  at  last, 

Winter  being  past,  — 
When  Thy  shadows  gladden  as  Thy  light. 


III. 

A   MOUNTAIN    SABBATH. 

Here  rests  the  Sabbath  of  the  soul, 
On  this  far-climbing,  tranquil  height  ! 

Where  waves  of  sound  through  pine  boughs  roll 
Like  organ  tones,  now  sad,  now  bright, 


IN  THE  MOUNTAINS.  19 

Uplifted  to  the  warmth  and  glow 

Of  some  new  world  of  peace  and  love, 
The  deep  blue  sparkling  sea  below, 

The  deep  blue  wondrous  sky  above ! 
Across  the  far  horizon's  rim 

The  purple-hooded  mountains  stand, 
To  swell  the  mighty  voiceless  hymn 

That  rises  from  the  silent  land. 
No  sight,  no  sound  of  earth's  unrest, 

Of  passion's  fret,  of  sordid  care  ; 
The  holiest  only  and  the  best 

Can  rise  into  this  purer  air. 

O  fruitful  hours  of  idleness, 

Whose  rich  repose  our  poor  toil  shames, 
With  all  diviner  thoughts  possess 

The  lives  long  bent  to  lowlier  aims ! 
For  sure,  with  eyes  made  clear  to  see 

Earth's  finer  bliss  and  pure  delights, 
God's  heaven  of  love  must  nearer  be, 

His  voice  more  clear,  upon  the  heights. 


DISCORDANCE. 

ONCE  the  sky  was  dark  and  drear, 
Mourning  for  the  dying  year ; 
Ocean  shrieked  in  bitter  pain 
Under  lashes  of  the  rain  ; 
Toothed  rocks  rose  black  and  thin,  — 
Rakes  to  draw  dead  men  within ; 
Cries  like  mocking  demons  passed 
Through  the  howling  of  the  blast : 
Yet  thy  face  was  sweet  to  see, 
Since  thou  brought'st  my  love  to  me, 
O  fair,  fair  sea  ! 

Once  the  rose  of  dawn  bloomed  fair 
In  the  dreaming  summer  air  ; 
Sleeping  waters  stirred  and  smiled, 
Dimpled  like  a  waking  child  ; 
Little  waves  with  tender  speech 
Kissed  the  white  feet  of  the  beach  ; 


DISCORDANCE.  21 

And  the  cooing  of  the  birds 
Filled  the  air  like  happy  words. 
God  !  that  then  his  eyes  should  be 
Closed  forever  under  thee, 
O  false,  false  sea ! 


ON   THE   SEA. 
I. 

FIRST   EVENING. 

GRAY  in  the  fading  skies  ; 
Gray  in  the  deep  sea  under; 

And  dark  on  its  wide  white  wings 
The  good  ship  quivers  and  springs, 
Dipping  into  the  night  and  cleaving  the  waves 

asunder, 
As  a  sea-gull  circles  and  flies. 

Loneliness  half,  and  deep  peace, 

Twins  of  the  silence  draw  near  me ; 

Soft  as  the  cooing  of  birds 

Kisses  and  lovingest  words 

From    lips    that    I    touched    last    night,    come 

through  the  dark  to  cheer  me. 
And  ere  their  whisperings  cease, 

Blend  with  their  lingering  tone 
Voices  and  lips  more  tender, 


ON  THE  SEA.  2$ 

That  long  in  the  churchyard  sod 
Have  known  the  sweet  twilight  of  God, 
And    now,    looking    backward    to    earth,    from 

Heaven's  more  wonderful  splendor, 
Are  speaking  to  me  alone. 


II. 

A   CALM    DAY. 

Where  hath  the  world  departed, 
With   all   its  envy  and  woe,  its   moil    and   its 

care  ; 

The  grief  of  its  sons  broken-hearted, 
The  tear  of  its  sorrow,  the  wail  of  despair  ? 
Here  like  a  child  on  the  breast  of  its  mother 

naught  cometh  to  me 

But  peace  and  rest,  peace  and  rest,  and  the 
infinite  joy  of  the  sea. 

Well  have  I  known  the  deep  sadness, 
That  stains  with  shadow  and  ruth  the  garment 
of  life, 

The  echo  that  mocks  at  its  gladness, 
The  weight  of  its  sorrow,  the  noise  of  its  strife ; 


24  ON  THE  SEA. 

Nought  of  its  bitterness,  nought  of  its  wail 
ing  I  hear  or  I  see, 

But  peace  and  rest,  peace  and  rest,  and  the 
infinite  joy  of  the  sea. 

But  a  rapture  of  light  in  the  heavens, 
A  glow  that  speaks  to  the  heart  like  promise 

of  dawn ; 

A  thrill  of  wide  freedom,  that  leavens 
The  being  with  sense  of  oppression  withdrawn 
Sweet,   as  if  nearer  the  portals  of  glory  the 

soul  floated  free 

In  peace  and  rest,  peace  and  rest,  and  the 
infinite  joy  of  the  sea. 


III. 

STORM. 

Whither,  O  God,  hath  evanished 

Thy  near  brooding  sense  of  delight! 
The  calm  of  sweet  silence  where  banished, 

The  peace  of  the  night,  — 
Only  gray  mist  like  a  shroud  tossed  low  on  a 

rain-beaten  grave  ; 

And  the  flail  of  the  wind  smiting  loud,  and  the 
answering  roar  of  the  wave ! 


ON  THE  SEA.  2$ 

Beyond,  a  blind  terror  of  fate, 

A  conflict  of  fear  and  of  doubt, 
A  clamor  of  darkness  and  hate, 

And  the  sky  blotted  out ! 
Beneath,  but  the  quavering  cry  of  timbers  that 

strain  through  the  wrack, 

And   stealthy  fierce  waves   bounding   high  like 
sleuthhounds  of  death  on  our  track  ! 


IV. 

HOMEWARD    BOUND. 

The  grime  of  the  land  falls   away  like   a   clod 

from  the  heel  of  the  ship  ; 
The   deep  sapphire   cup   of   the   sea   holds   its 

wine  of  delight  to  her  lip  ; 
And  she  quaffs  of  its  strength  and   its   joy   as 

she  bounds  over  mountains  of  foam, 
And  speeds  like  a  bird  in  its  flight 
Through  courses  of  day  and  of  night 
To  the  headlands  of  Home  ! 

O  world  of  our  dreams,  as  you  die  in  the  haze 

of  the  sunset's  red  gold ! 
O   blue    of   the    brave    Tuscan    sky !     O   glory 

and  grandeur  of  old  ! 


26  ON   THE   SEA. 

Shrines  of  saints,  tombs  of  kings,  all  the  light 

that  illumines  the  earth's  wondrous  tome, 

How  ye  fade  as  a  torch  dim  and  burned, 

Once  the  eyes  of  the  soul  have  been  turned 

To  the  headlands  of  Home ! 


IN  MAY  TIME. 

IN  May  time  !     In  May  time 

'Gin  little  leaves  to  dance; 
The  apple  bloom  and  cherry 
Make  all  the  orchards  merry, 

And  under  sheath  of  flowery  wreath 

Doth  thorn  bush  hide  his  lance. 

In  May  time  !     In  May  time 

The  little  birds  do  call, 
And  sweet  their  shrill  pipes  ringing 
Set  all  the  world  a-singing, 
While  gossip  gay  and  roundelay 
Bring  joy  to  one  and  all. 

In  May  time !     In  May  time, 

My  heart,  and  can  it  be 
That  thou,  with  greater  power 
For  joy  than  bird  or  flower, 
Doth  frozen  rest  within  my  breast 


28  IN  MAY  TIME. 

And  from  the  sunshine  flee 
And  feel  the  fret  of  winter  yet 
Because  one  frowns  on  thee  ? 
Alack!     And  woe  is  me! 


AVENGED ! 

WHEN  thou  wert   here,  he   thought   it  hard  to 

shun  thee ; 
He    feared    lest    some    time  Fate  should  bring 

thee  near, 
So   deep  he  felt   the  wrong  that  he   had   done 

thee,  — 
While  thou  wert  here. 

Now    thou    art    dead,  his    heavy  heart    grows 

lighter, 
The    strain    of    fear    that  wrung    the    soul    is 

fled; 

His  sun  of  life  grows  ever  bright  and  brighter, 
Now  thou  art  dead. 

Ah    fool    and    blind !      Dividing    seas    might 

thunder 

Beneath  the  stars  to  keep  his  pathway  clear, 
A  world  obtrude  to  hold  your  ways  asunder, 
While  thou  wert  here ; 


3O  A  VENGED.     . 

But  now,  nor  depth  nor  space  can  aught  avail 

him ; 

By  night,  by  day,  while  time  and  life  go  on, 
Soul  unto  soul  thy  spirit  shall  assail  him, 
Now  thou  art  gone. 


THE  EQUINOCTIAL. 

THROUGH  the  long  night  the  surges  roared 
In  hoarse,  wild  heat,  against  the  rocks 
Whose  flinty  horns  their  white  sides  gored, 
Then  came  the  Equinox! 

No  joy  was  in  the  face  of  day, 
The  air  was  full  of  wrath  and  strife, 
The  pall  of  cloud  rack  torn  away 
Had  more  of  death  than  life. 

Swift  from  its  stormy  grasp  is  hurled 
The  mighty  sheaf  of  thunderous  spears ; 
While,  hushed  in  dread,  a  silent  world 
Its  shout  of  triumph  hears. 

Sullen,  with  deep  and  lowering  brow, 
Fierce  foam  of  wrath  upon  its  lips, 
And  strong  breath  smiting  keel  and  prow 
The  quivering,  doomed  ships, 


32  THE  EQUINOCTIAL. 

The  sunset  meets  its  eyes'  wild  light 
Unquenched  amid  its  tangled  locks  ; 
God  help  their  need  who  meet  to-night 
The  awful  Equinox! 


IN  A  CITY  STREET. 

NAY!  think  not  Spring  is  all  for  you 
Because  amid  your  woodland  bowers 

The  torch  of  life  flames  up  anew 
In  maple  tips  and  springing  flowers, 

Because  your  wide  horizon  dips 
Beyond  a  world  of  beauty  glowing, 

And  earth  through  all  her  being  sips 
The  wine  of  gladness,  sparkling,  flowing. 

For  us  too  Spring  hath  spent  her  store; 

In  all  her  joy  are  we  partakers, 
Although  the  plot  beside  our  door 

Has  fewer  feet  than  yours  has  acres. 

The  slim  green  lances  of  the  grass, 
The  few  pale  crocus  buds  upspringing, 

The  wandering  birds  that  pause,  and  pass, 
To  fresher  fields  their  swift  way  winging ; 


34  IN  A    CITY  STREET. 

The  radiant  gleam  of  heaven's  blue 
Above  the  narrowing  rooftree's  border, 

The  early  sunbeam  creeping  through 
Like  shining  spear  of  silent  warder; 

The  moon  that  comes  in  silver  state 
And  fills  the  place  with  royal  splendor, 

The  fading  light  that  lingers  late 

To  meet  the  night  in  wooing  tender; 

The  subtle  sense  that  fills  the  air 
With  some  divine  unspoken  glory,  - 

All  these  are  ours;    nor  can  you  share 
With  deeper  peace  the  old  sweet  story 

Than  I,  with  this  small  sod  that  tells 
Of  joy  and  life  again  upspringing, 

And  this  sweet  chime  of  crocus  bells 
To  airs  of  heaven  set  a-ringing. 


AT  TWENTY-ONE. 

The  Youth  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 

And  by  the  vision  splendid 

Is  on  his  way  attended ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

WORDSWORTH. 

AND  so,  if  Wordsworth's  song  be  true,  — 
And  if  he  knew  not,  who  shall  know  it,  - 

The  common  day  has  dawned  for  you, 
That  comes  at  last  to  sage  and  poet. 

The  clouds  of  glory  torn  and  spent, 
The  heavenly  light  behind  them  faded, 

The  man  must  pitch  his  moving  tent 
In  lands  by  care  and  sorrow  shaded. 

Believe  it  not,  O  heart  of  mine  ! 

The  psalm  of  life  rings  truer,  clearer  ; 
Beyond  the  glow  and  glory  shine, 

And  every  step  but  brings  them  nearer. 


36  AT  TWENTY-ONE. 

Keep  for  thy  star,  as  still  of  old, 

The  love  that  makes  of  mankind  brothers, 

And  hold  within  that  heart  of  gold, 
So  harsh  for  self,  so  kind  for  others. 

The  blindest  soul  must  catch  the  light 
From  passing  marvels'  regal  splendor  ; 

Be  thine  the  eyes  to  read  aright 

Earth's  common  beauty  glad  and  tender. 

Be  thine  that  holier  sense  that  heeds 

The  hidden  harmonies  of  duty, 
And  finds,  to  fill  its  daily  needs, 

God's  constant  spring  of  love  and  beauty. 

So  heaven  shall  lie  about  thy  way ; 

Not  all  unknown,  as  mid  the  blisses 
Of  childhood's  short  unconscious  day, 

Whose  loftiest  sky  was  smiles  and  kisses, 

But  pure,  serene,  o'erarching  all 
The  toil  of  life  with  something  finer, 

Till  from  the  ore  the  dross  shall  fall 
And  virgin  gold  reward  the  miner. 


AT  TWENTY-ONE.  37 

O  not  behind  the  heavenly  shore 

The  psalm  of  life  rings  truer,  clearer  ; 

The  light,  the  glory,  is  before, 

And  each  strong  step  but  brings  it  nearer. 


THE   DAWNING   O'   THE   YEAR. 

ALL   ye  who    love    the    Springtime  —  and   who 

but  loves  it  well 
When  the  little   birds  do   sing,  and   the   buds 

begin  to  swell !  — 
Think  not  ye  ken  its  beauty  or  know  its  face 

so  dear, 
Till  ye  look  upon  old  Ireland,   in  the  dawning 

o'  the  year ! 

For  where  in  all  the  earth  is  there  any  joy  like 

this; 
When  the  skylark  sings  and  soars  like  a  spirit 

into  bliss, 
While    the   thrushes    in    the   bush   strain   their 

small  brown  mottled  throats, 
Making  all  the  air  rejoice  with  their  clear  and 

mellow  notes  : 

And  the  blackbird  on  the  hedge  in  the  golden 

sunset  glow 
Trills  with  saucy,  side-tipped  head  to  the  bonny 

nest  below; 


THE  DAWNING  O'    THE    YEAR.  39 

And  the  dancing  wind  slips  down  through  the 

leaves  of  the  boreen, 
And   all   the  world   rejoices   in   the  wearing  o' 

the  green. 

For  't  is  green,  green,  green,  where  the  ruined 
towers  are  gray, 

And  it 's  green,  green,  green,  all  the  happy 
night  and  day ; 

Green  of  leaf  and  green  of  sod,  green  of  ivy 
on  the  wall, 

And  the  blessed  Irish  shamrock  with  the  fair 
est  green  of  all. 

There  the  primrose   breath   is   sweet,    and   the 

yellow  gorse  is  set 
A    crown    of    shining  gold   on   the   headlands 

brown  and  wet ; 
Not    a  nook    of    all   the   land   but   the   daisies 

make  to  glow, 
And  the  happy  violets  pray  in  their  hidden  cells 

below. 

And  it 's  there  the  earth  is  merry,  like  a  young 

thing  newly  made 
Running  wild  amid  the   blossoms   in   the   field 

and  in  the  glade, 


40  THE  DAWNING  <7    THE    YEAR. 

Babbling  ever  into  music  under  skies  with  soft 

clouds  piled, 
Like  the   laughter    and    the   tears   in    the   blue 

eyes  of  a  child. 

But  the  green,  green,  green,  O  't  is  that  is  blithe 

and  fair  ! 
In  the  fells  and  on  the  hills,  gay  and  gladsome 

as  the  air, 
Lying  warm  above   the  bog,  floating  brave  on 

crag  and  glen, 
Thrusting    forty    banners    high    where    another 

land  has  ten. 

Sure  Mother  Nature  knows  of  her  sore  and 
heavy  grief, 

And  thus  with  soft  caress  would  give  solace 
and  relief  ; 

Would  fold  her  close  in  loveliness  to  keep  her 
from  the  cold, 

And  clasp  the  mantle  o'er  her  heart  with  em 
eralds  and  gold. 

So  ye  who  love  the  Springtime  —  and  who  but 

loves  it  well 
When   the    little   birds    do    sing,   and    the  buds 

besnn  to  swell  !  — 


THE   DAWNING   O'    THE    YEAR.  41 

Think  not  ye  ken  its  beauty  or  know  its  face 

so  dear 
Till  ye  meet  it  in  old  Ireland  in  the  dawning 

o'  the  year! 


IN   MIDWINTER. 

THE  pine  and  the  oak  ! 

The  pine  and  the  oak  ! 

Never  in  summer  a  voice  they  woke 

Of  singing  or  sighing  my  heart  within ; 
Dazzled  and  dazed  by  the  sunlight's  gold, 
And  dance  of  the  grass  over  hill  and  wold, 
And  breezes  that  pressed  with  such  petulant 

din,  — 

I  could  not  wait  for  the  words  they  spoke ; 
Nor   look   for   the    dryads    that    wander   and 

moan, 

Left  in  the  shade  of  the  green  wood  alone  ; 
Thinking  with  weeping  and  wringing  of  hands, 
Of  the  glad  lost  time  in  the  fair  Greek  lands, 
When  faun  and  satyr  together  met 

In  royal  sport  under  palms  and  larches, 
And  the  mystic  light  of  a  day  long  set 

Pierced    through   the    gloom    of    the    forest 
arches. 


IN  MIDWINTER.  43 

But  now  in  the  snow  and  frost, 

When  joy  of  the  eyes  is  lost, 
And  under  the  dull  sky  gray  and  low, 
The  wraith  of  the  dead  year  wanders  slow,  — 
Sweet,  as  a  song  without  words, 
The  flight  and  the  music  of  birds, 
Glad  leaves  set  to  a  June  day's  tuning, 
Echo  of  dreams  in  a  sultry  nooning, 
Whisper  of  blooms  in  woodlands  hiding, 
Scent  of  the  rose  on  soft  airs  riding, 

Comes  to  the  tranced  ear, 

Melody  soft  and  clear. 
And  visions  of  beauty  rare  and  tender  : 
Dian  enwrapped  in  her  maiden  splendor 
Turning  young  Acteon's  gaze  on  death ; 
Joyous  Bacchantes  with  lusty  breath 
Dancing  before  the  wine  God's  car  ; 
Or  shy  pale  nymphs  in  the  aisles  afar, 
Smiling  behind  their  locks,  half  hid 
From  ardent  eyes  of  some  daring  lover,  — 
These  are  what  fancy,  unforbid, 
In  shade  of  the  pine  and  the  oak  discover. 


TRANSITION. 

THE  golden  woods  shine  like  a  glory ;  the  air 

is  as  balm  ; 
The  land  is  as  fair  as  a  story ;  the  waves  sing 

a  psalm ; 
Like  censers  of  incense  the  pungent  swift  odors 

ascend  ; 
And  far  in  the   distant   horizon    the    sea   and 

sky  blend ; 
We    know    not    where    Heaven   beginneth,    or 

where  Earth  may  end. 

Dear  Heart !  read  the  joy  and  the  sweetness ; 

endeavor  to  see 
The   lesson   in   all   its   completeness   that   God 

giveth  thee  : 
So   full    of  the    light    of    the    spirit    the    body 

should  glow, 
When    nearing  its   time   of   departure,   that   we 

could  not  know 
Which  step   crossed   the   threshold   of   Heaven 

and  left  us  below ! 


DAISIES. 

DAISIES  ! 

Low  in  the  grass  and  high  in  the  clover, 
Starring  the  green  earth  over  and  over, 
Now  into  white  waves  tossing  and  breaking, 
Like  a  foaming  sea  when  the  wind  is  waking, 
Now  standing  upright,  tall  and  slender, 
Showing  their  deep  heart's  golden  splendor, 
Daintily  bending, 
Airily  lending 

Garlands  of  flowers  for  earth's  adorning, 
Fresh  with  the  bloom  of  a  summer  morning : 
High  on  the  slope,  low  in  the  hollow, 
Where  eye  can  reach  or  foot  can  follow, 
Shining  with  innocent  fearless  faces 
Out  of  the  depths  of  lonely  places, 

Till  the  glad  heart  sings  their  praises, 
Here  are  the  daisies, 
The  daisies. 

See  them  ebbing  and  flowing, 

Like  tides  with  the  full  moon  going; 


46  DAISIES. 

Spreading  their  generous  largess  free 
For  hand  to  touch  and  eye  to  see, 
In  dust  of  the  wayside  growing, 
On  rock-ribbed  upland  blowing, 
By  meadow  brooklets  glancing, 
On  barren  fields  a-dancing, 
Till  the  world  forgets  to  burrow  and  grope, 
And  rises  aloft  on  the  wings  of  hope ; 
Oh  !  of  all  posies, 
Lilies  or  roses, 
Sweetest  or  fairest, 
Richest  or  rarest, 

That  earth  in  its  joy  to  heaven  upraises, 
Give  me  the  daisies  ! 

Why  ?    For  they  glow  with  the  spirit  of  youth, 
Their  beautiful  eyes  have  the  glory  of  truth, 
Down  before  all  their  rich  bounty  they  fling, 
Free  to  the  beggar,  and  free  to  the  king  ; 
Loving,  they  stoop  to  the  lowliest  ways, 
Joyous,  they  brighten  the  dreariest  days  ; 
Under  the  fringe  of  their  raiment  they  hide 
Scars  the  gray  winter  had  opened  so  wide ; 

Freely  and  brightly. 

Who  can  count  lightly 
Gifts  with  such  generous  ardor  proffered, 


DAISIES.  47 

Tokens  of  love  from  such  full  hearts  offered ; 
Or  look  without  passion  of  joy  and  delight 
At   pastures,    star    covered    from    morning   till 

night, 

When  the  sunshiny  field  ablaze  is 
With  daisies. 

Daisies  ! 

Your  praise  is 
That  you  are  like  maidens,  as  maidens  should 

be, 

Winsome  in  freshness  and  wholesome  to  see  ; 
Gifted  with  beauty  and  joy  to  the  eye ; 
Head  lifted  daintily,  yet  not  too  high  ; 
Sweet  with  humility  ;  radiant  in  love  ; 
Generous,  too,  as  the  sunshine  above  ; 
Swaying  with  sympathy,  tenderly  bent 
On  hiding  the  hurt,  and  on  healing  the  rent ; 
Innocent,  looking  the  world  in  the  face  ; 
Fearless,  with  nature's  own  innocent  grace ; 
Full  of  sweet  goodness,  yet  simple  in  art ; 
White  in  the  soul  and  pure  gold  in  the  heart; 
Ah  !  like  unto  you  should  all  maidenhood  be, 
Gladsome  to  know  and  most  gracious  to  see,  — 

Like  you,  my  daisies! 


A  BIRTHDAY. 

A  SCORE  of  years!     O  child  beloved  and  fair, 
Since    thy  glad    pinions    in   swift    upward 

flight 

Darkened  for  us  the  rosy  morning  light, 
And   earth   grew   empty,  —  for   thou   wert   not 
there. 

A    score    of    years !     At    manhood's    threshold 

stand 
The   little   ones  who    touched   with    bated 

breath 

Thy  lips  all  pallid  from  the  kiss  of  death, 
The  frozen  beauty  of  thy  dimpled  hand. 

But  thee,  nor  time  nor  change  can  rude  assail ; 
Upon  thy  face  the  baby  smile  doth  rest, 
The  fadeless  lilies  shine  upon  thy  breast, 

And  on  thy  brow  a  glory  rare  and  pale. 


A  BIRTHDAY.  49 

O  wondrous  Death  !  thou  dealest  sharpest  pain  ! 

More  swift  than  life  thou  snatchest  youth 
away ; 

But  while  life  farther  bears  it,  day  by  day, 
Thy  hand,  grown  kind,  doth  give  it  back  again  ! 


TWO  FESTIVALS. 

WHEN  in  the  June  time  nature  woke 

To  sunshine  and  joy  and  sweet  surrender, 
Fragance  of  bloom  on  the  orchard  slope, 
Passion  of  love  in  the  roses'  splendor, 
Wooed  by  the  voices  of  bird  and  of  bee, 
Whisper  of  tree-tops  and  murmur  of  sea, 
Earth  the  maid  became  Earth  the  wife  ; 
Gayly  she  married  her  bridegroom  Life,  — 
And  the  green  leaves  danced  at  the  wedding. 

Now  in  the  dull  November  day 

Sunshine  and  song  have  flown  together, 
The  rose  is  dead,  and  the  bird  away 

In  far  lands  seeking  the  golden  weather  ; 
With  clashing  of  boughs  in  the  windy  lane, 
With  sigh  of  the  wind  and  sob  of  the  rain, 
Wrinkled  and  gray  and  scant  o'  breath, 
The    widowed    Earth    marries   her   bridegroom 

Death,  — 
And  the  dead  leaves  dance  at  the  wedding. 


THE  DARK  O'  THE  YEAR. 

AYE,  but  the  day  is  dour,  lad, 

Wi'  the  chill  wind  moanin'  by; 
Snaw  on  the  fell  an'  moor,  lad, 

Snaw  in  the  cauld,  gray  sky ; 
Short  is  the  sun's  dim  shinin', 

Lang  is  the  darksome  night, 
Wi'  the  sheeverin  dawn  from  its  bosom  blawn, 

Like  a  wraith  thro'  the  gruesome  night ! 

'T  is  a  time  o'  trouble  an'  dearth,  lad, 

Cauld  is  the  sun's  warm  breath, 
And  the  guid  brown  cheek  o'  the  airth,  lad, 

Is  wan  wi'  the  white  o'  death. 
There  's  never  a  song  in  the  bushes, 

There  's  never  a  lilt  in  the  breeze, 
An'  the  greetin'  rain,  like  a  soul  in  pain, 

Gaes  sobbin'  amang  the  trees. 

But  the  fire  on  the  hearth  is  high,  lad, 
An'  the  ingle  nook  is  warm  ; 


52  THE  DARK  O'    THE    YEAR. 

There  's  a  promise  o'  springtime  nigh,  lad, 

To  brighten  the  darkest  storm. 
'Tis  little  we  heed  its  skelpin', 

When  the  heart  is  gay  within, 
For  the  auld  heads  bent  in  a  fine  content, 

An'  the  laughin'  bairnies'  din. 

They  ca'  it  the  dark  o'  the  year,  lad, 

But  little  they  know  who  speak  1 
When  the  speerit  is  glad  an'  clear,  lad, 

Wha  cares  if  the  land  be  bleak? 
But  I  could  tell  of  a  dawnin', 

As  fair  as  the  smile  o'  God ; 
When  the  hawthorn  spray  for   the  brow  o'  the 
May 

Was  glintin'  above  the  sod, 

When  the  lark  like  an  arrow  o'  song,  lad, 

Was  piercin'  the  dazzle  o'  sky, 
An'  the  sweet  air  sparklin'  an'  strong,  lad, 

Laughed  low  as  it  floated  by, 
An'  a  dead  face  there  in  the  corner, 

Changed  a'  life's  glory  to  fear,  — 
O  wae  be  the  day !     And  wae  be  the  day ! 

For  that  was  the  dark  o'  the  year ! 


SPRING'S  AWAKING. 

THE  wind  is  chill  in  the  street ; 
As  it  sighs,  the  bare  boughs  fret ; 
Grime  of  the  mire  and  the  wet 
Hinder  the  weary  feet ; 
But  high  in  the  purer  air, — 
High  as  the  heart's  desire  — 
In  a  passion  of  longing  and  fire 
A  bird  sings  sweet  and  fair,  — 
While  a  sunbeam,  cheery  and  strong, 
Answers  the  joy  of  the  song, 
And  Spring  is  coming. 

Soul,  thou  art  sore  distrest ! 

By  grief  and  the  shadow  of  death, 
By  cold  of  the  winter's  breath, 

Still  is  thy  pulse  opprest ! 

Lift  up  thine  eyes  to  see, 
Lift  up  thine  ears  to  hear,  — 
For  the  spirit  of  life  is  near 


54  SPRING'S  AWAKING. 

And  its  voice  is  calling  to  thee. 
Over  the  graveyard  sod 
Shineth  the  smile  of  God, 

And  Spring  is  coming. 


AT  A  NAMELESS  SOLDIER'S  GRAVE. 

UNTO  the  unknown  dead  ! 

Unto  each  honored  head 
Soft  pillowed  now  in  peacefulness  most  deep, 
That  maketh  holy  ground  where'er  they  sleep ; 
Above  whose  rest  the  loving  south  winds  hover, 
And  bees  hum  loud  amid  the  brave  red  clover ; 

Who  for  their  country  fought, 

Loyal  in  heart  and  thought 
However  led  by  alien  force  astray, 

Weave  we  a  wreath  to-day. 

Fame  hath  its  trumpet  tone 
For  names  long  made  its  own ; 
Poets  have  sung  and  kindly  eyes  bewept 
The  golden  promise  from  earth's  harvest  swept 
Ere  yet  the  grain  had  ripened,  and  the  calm 
Of  well-won  peace  distilled  its  holy  balm. 
But  for  the  unknown  host, 
N,one  hath  made  plaint  or  boast, 
Who  in  the  depth  of  war's  ensanguined  flood, 
Found  their  baptism  of  blood. 


56     AT  A   NAMELESS  SOLDIERS  GRAVE. 

Yet  did  their  strong  arms  hold 
Treasure  more  dear  than  gold 
For   the  fair   land   on  which   their   true   hearts 

shed 
Joy,  love,    and    life,   that    she    might    lift    her 

head. 

In  her  rich  coffers  shines  no  purer  gem 
Than     the     brave     faith     that     nerved     and 

strengthened  them, 
When  in  her  anguish  torn, 
Stricken  and  all  forlorn, 

From  her  deep  need  she  gave  that  bitter  cry 
And  they  came  forth,  —  to  die. 

Nor  in  the  glorious  way 

Waiting  her  feet  to-day,  — 
Robed  in  white  honor,  proved  among  her  peers, 
Guarded  in  peace  more  strong  than  sword  and 

spears,  — 

Let  from  her  grateful  memory  be  cast 
The  nameless  heroes  of  her  golden  past, 
Whose  bones  on  many  a  field  forgotten  lie 

Under  the  summer  sky. 

But  as  they  make  more  fair 
The  brave  earth  smiling  there, 


AT  A   NAMELESS  SOLDIER'S   GRAVE.     $/ 

Joyous  with  life  and  rich  in  happy  bloom, 
So  in  our  souls  their  spirits  shall  find  room 
With   all  glad   thought  of  worth   and   high   re 
nown, 

Of  love,  and  trust,  and  lofty  honor's  crown, 
Of  freedom's  kindling  breath, 
Of  strength  that  conquers  death,  — 
The  while  we  sing  with  proud  uplifted  head 
Unto  the  Unknown   Dead ! 


A  LITANY  OF  FLOWERS.1 

O  FLOWER  of   Faith  !    Thou  Passion  bloom  up- 
springing 

Amid  the  dust  of  lowliness  and  pain, 
The  joy  of  life  to  death  and  sadness  bringing, 
Our    eyes    are  dim ;  make    thou    the    pathway 
plain. 

O  Flower  of  Hope !  Fair  Lily  of  the  garden, 
Whose  leaves  no  touch  of  soil  or  time  can  fret, 
Of  Heaven's  dear  peace  the  sentinel  and  war 
den, 
Let  thy  light  shine  above  earth's  vague  regret. 

O   Flower  of    Love !    Red  Rose,  whose   mystic 

beauty 

Hath  so  made  glad  our  fallen  nature's  state, 
Lend    thy  sweet    breath  to   teach    the  bliss    of 

duty, 

And  lift  our  souls  to  where  His  glories  wait. 
1  Feast  of  the  Annunciation. 


WENDELL  PHILLIPS. 

GLORY,  not  grief,  our  theme  to-day  ! 

The  record  of  his  life  to  sing 
Who  brought  to  clothe  our  common  clay 

The  royal  mantle  of  the  king. 
Glory,  not  grief!     The  heart  is  cold 

That  drinks  of  sorrow's  bitter  cup, 
When  like  the  prophet  saint  of  old, 

God's  fiery  steeds  bear  heroes  up. 

Some  tombs  are  altars.      On  them  flame 

The  beacon  lights  of  sacrifice, 
'Like  stars  fair  set  in  sky  of  fame 

To  light  the  way  for  seeking  eyes. 
Beside  them  lie  the  conqueror's  bays, 

The  patriot's  sword,  the  poet's  pen, 
Like  kindling  sparks  to  set  ablaze 

The  fire  divine  in  hearts  of  men. 

Round  thy  dear  name,  O  thou  most  blessed 
Because  most  loved  !  what  memories  throng 

Now  that  thy  virtues  stand  confessed, 

By  death's  pale  light  made  doubly  strong. 


6O  WENDELL   PHILLIPS. 

Thou  Bayard  of  our  craven  age  ! 

When  even  honor  stoops  to  greed, 
How  fair  the  white,  unsullied  page 

Thy  record  leaves  for  man  to  read  ! 

Born  in  the  purple ;  placed  beyond 

The  cares  that  lowlier  fortune  bears, 
What  wiser  insight,  deep  and  fond, 

Led  thee  to  mate  thy  life  with  theirs  ? 
Thy  soul  was  like  an  angel's  wing 

To  stir  the  troubled  pool  of  doubt, 
Till  Bondage,  bathing  in  the  spring, 

Drew  healing  grace  of  Freedom  out. 

• 

Twofold  thy  nature  :  one  was  shown 

To  those  oppressed  of  creed  or  race, 
Who  knew  thy  tenderness  alone, 

And  saw  the  Saviour  in  thy  face  ; 
While  one,  in  stern  and  awful  guise, 

Confronted  the  embattled  throng, 
And  with  the  lightning  of  thine  eyes 

Struck  down  the  armored  might  of  wrong. 

If,  sometime,  on  the  upward  track, 
When  frosty  peril  nipped  the  soul 

And  Prudence  called  her  warriors  back, 
Thy  braver  spirit  stormed  the  goal, 


WENDELL   PHILLIPS.  6 1 

Smote  giant  Danger,  branch  and  root, 
And  spurred  thy  lagging  comrades  on,  — 

Shall  we,  who  share  the  victory's  fruit, 
Dare  question  how  the  heights  were  won  ? 

The  winged  arrows  of  thy  speech, 

Barbed  with  sharp  point  of  finest  scorn, 
That  tore  their  way  through  gap  and  breach, 

And  forced  a  path  for  hopes  forlorn  ; 
The  broken  fetter  of  the  slave, 

The  right  of  manhood  to  be  free  — 
What  nobler  signs  could  make  thy  grave 

A  sacred  shrine  to  Liberty  ? 

On  thy  dead  brow  we  place  the  crown, 

For  words  made  living  by  thy  breath  ; 
For  fearless  thought ;  for  high  renown 

Of  conquest  from  the  jaws  of  death ; 
For  this  is  Fame !     But  to  thy  bier 

Come  gifts,  all  other  gifts  above, — 
The  freedman's  prayer,  the  poor  man's  tear, 

The  Nation's  stricken  cry  of  love  ! 

1884. 


HOW   IRELAND  ANSWERED. 

A   TRADITION    OF    THE   AMERICAN    REVOLUTION. 

WHERESOE'ER  in  song  or  story 
Runs  one  theme  of  ancient  glory, 
Wheresoe'er  in  word  or  action  lives  one   spark 

for  freedom's  shrine, 
Read  it  out  before  the  people, 
Ring  it  loud  in  street  and  steeple, 
Till   the  hearts   of   those  who   listen   thrill   be 
neath  its  power  divine  ! 

And  as  lives  immortal,  gracious, 
The  great  deed  of  young  Horatius, 
Or   that  gauntlet   of   defiance  flung  by  Tell  in 

Gessler's  face, 

So  for  him  who  claims  as  sireland 
The  green  hills  of  holy  Ireland, 
Let   the  speech  of    old  John   Parnell   speak  its 
lesson  to  his  race. 


HO W  IRELAND  ANSWERED.  63 

'T  was  in  days  when  sore  tormenting 
With  a  malice  unrelenting, 
England   pushed   her  youngest    step-child  past 

endurance  into  strife ; 
Till,  with  weak,  frail  hands  uplifted, 
With  but  hate  and  courage  gifted, 
She  began   the   desperate  struggle   that   should 
end  in  death  or  life. 

Came  the  fourth  long  year  of  fighting; 
Want  and  woe  and  famine  biting 
Nipped     the    heartstrings    of    the     "  Rebels," 

chilled  their  pulse  with  cold  despair; 
Southern  swamp  and  Northern  mountain 
Fed  full  streams  to  war's  red  fountain, 
And  the  gloom  of  hopeless  struggle   darkened 
all  the  heavy  air  ; 

Lincoln's  troops  in  wild  disorder 
Beaten  on  the  Georgian  border ; 
Fivescore     craft    off     Norfolk    harbor    scuttled 

deep  beneath  the  tide ; 
Hessian  thieves  in  swaggering  sallies 
Raiding  fair  New  England  valleys; 
While  before  Savannah's  trenches  brave  Pulaski, 
fighting,  died  ; 


64  HOW  IRELAND  ANSWERED. 

Indian  allies  warwhoops  raising 
Where  Wyoming's  roofs  were  blazing; 
Clinton,  full  of  pomp  and  bluster,  sailing  down 

on  Charleston  ; 

And  the  people  faint  with  striving, 
Worn  with  aimless,  poor  contriving, 
Tired   at   last   of   freedom's   battle,   heedless   if 
't  is  lost  or  won. 

Shall  now  England  pause  for  mercy 
When  the  frozen  plains  of  Jersey, 
Tracked  with  blood,  showed  pathways  trodden 

by  bare  feet  of  wounded  men  ? 
When  the  drained  and  tortured  nation 
Holds  no  longer  gold  or  ration 
To   upbuild   her   fallen   fortune,  or   to    fill   her 
veins  again  ? 

Nay  !  but  striving  swift  and  surely 
Now  to  gain  the  end  securely, 
Stirling    asks    for    reinforcements  —  volunteers 

to  speed  the  cause ; 
And  King  George  in  mandate  royal 
Speeds  amid  his  subjects  loyal, 
Calls  for  dutiful   assistance   to  avenge   his  out 
raged  laws. 


HOW  IRELAND  ANSWERED.  65 

In  the  name  of  law  and  order 
Sends  across  the  Irish  border 
To  the  wild  and   reckless  spirits  of  whose  dar 
ing  well  he  knows : 

"  Ho !  brave  fools  who  fight  for  pleasure, 
Here  is  chance  for  fame  and  treasure  ; 
Teach    those    brazen   Yankee    devils    the    full 
force  of  Irish  blows  !  " 

Old  John  Parnell,  cool  and  quiet,  — 
Strange  result  on  Celtic  diet,  — 
Colonel    he    of    volunteers    and    well    beloved 

chief  of  men, 

Reads  the  royal  proclamation, 
Answers  for  himself  and  nation  — 
Ye  who  heed  the  voice  of  honor   list  the  ring 
ing  words  again  :  — 

"  Still,  as  in  her  ancient  story, 
Ireland  fights  for  right  and  glory ; 
Still  her  sons,  through  blood   and   danger,  hold 

unstained  their  old  renown ; 
But,  by  God  who  reigneth  o'er  me, 
By  the  motherland  that  bore  me, 
Never    Irish    gold    or  valor    helps    to    strike   a 
patriot  down  !  " 


66  HOW  IRELAND  ANSWERED. 


Thus  'mid  themes  immortal,  gracious, 
Like  that  deed  of  young  Horatius 
Or  the  gauntlet   of    defiance   flung   by  Tell   in 

Gessler's  face, 

Let  the  Celt  who  claims  as  sireland 
The  green  hills  of  holy  Ireland 
Place   the   speech  of   old   John  Parnell  for  the 
glory  of  his  race. 


DECORATION   DAY. 

WHERE  is  the  Winter's  scath  ? 
Where  is  the  pain  and  wrath 

That   scarred   the   earth  with   ruin   and  with 

blight, 

That  wove  its  icy  pall  round  day  and  night? 
Gone !    as   the    swiftly  moving  grace   of    Sum 
mer 

Casts  its  fair  shadow,  luminous  and  sweet, 
While     Nature,    blithe     to    greet     the    jocund 

comer, 
Bursts  into  bloom  before  her  welcome  feet. 

Where  be  our  loved  and  lost  ? 
Where  are  the  tempest-tossed 

Souls    of     the     brave,  that     passion's     fiery 

breath 
Scorched     on     the     battlefields    of    war    and 

death  ? 

Gone!     And  above  their  place  a  lasting  glory 
Of  shining  deeds,  a  high,  heroic  part 


68  DECORA  TION  DA  Y. 

Written  in  light  across  their  country's  story, 
Written  in  love  upon  their  country's  heart. 

Shall  the  glad  days  return  ? 
Shall  the  gray  valleys  burn 

With  the  fresh  fires  of  resurrection,  blown 
Downward    with    living    breath    from    God's 

high  throne, 

And  our  dead  heroes,  in  cold  silence  sleeping, 
Wake   to  no  pulse  of  life,  no  heavenly  pow 
ers 
That,  with  the  spirit's  strength  all   bounds  o'er- 

leaping, 

Shall   reach  from   their   more   glorious  world 
to  ours  ? 

Nay!  when  we  come  to-day 
Laden  with  blooms  of  May, 

Crowning  with    music's   breath    and  voice   of 
song 

The  graves  that  to  their  quiet  rest  belong, 
Is  it  not  theirs,  this  mood  of  inspiration 

That  lifts  in  prayer   and   praise   each   rever 
ent  head, 
While,  proudly  sad,  the  Genius  of  the  Nation 

Kneels  by  the  honored  ashes  of  her  dead  ? 


DECORATION  DAY.  69 

Seasons  shall  ebb  and  flow, 
Kingdoms  shall  come  and  go, 
Through    the    long    cycles    of    the   years   to 

come, 

Ere  the  deep  echoes  of  their  fame  be  dumb. 
Still  in  the  fertile  soil  of  true  hearts  growing 
Their    seed    shall    bourgeon    for    the   day  of 

need  ; 

And   the   strong   impulse   from    their   lives    up- 
flowing 

Still    force    its   way   to   golden    thought    and 
deed. 

From  their  mute  lips  arise 
Strains  that  do  scale  the  skies : 
The  might  of   Love,  that   freely  ventured  all 
When  awful  Duty  thrilled  her  trumpet-call ; 
Patience,  in   pain   that   burned  the   dross  from 

merit ; 
Faith,  in   the    heart  when   earthly  hope  grew 

dim; 

Death,    as    a    choice,    that    we    might    life    in 
herit,  — 

Such    are     the     themes    of     their    immortal 
hymn. 


70  DECORATION  DAY. 

Fair  is  the  thought,  and  just, 
That  to  their  sacred  dust 

Leads  year  by  year  in  pious  pilgrimage 

The  blended  ranks  of  childhood  and  of  age, 
The   grace   of   woman,  bright  with   love's    own 
splendor, 

The  strength  of  manhood  in  its  lusty  prime, 
Moved  by  one  impulse,  generous  and  tender, 

To    hold    their   memories   green   through  cir 
cling  time. 

Country,  or  rank,  or  name, 
Naught  do  we  ask  of  Fame. 

Whether  they  called   themselves  of  North  or 

South, 

Since  naught  they  asked  who  faced  the  can 
non's  mouth, 
Since    on    both    sides    the    patriot    heart    beat 

kindly, 

Since  on  both  sides  the  balm  of  death  did  fall, 
Forgive  the  brothers'  hands  uplifted  blindly, 
And  with   the   love  of  brothers   crown   them 
all. 


WOMEN  OF  THE   REVOLUTION. 

HEART  of   the    patriot,    touched    by  freedom's 

kindling  breath, 
Pouring  its  burning  words  from  lips  by  passion 

fired ; 
Sword  of  the  soldier,  drawn   in  the  awful  face 

of  death ; 
Bounteous  pen  of  the  scholar,  tracing  its  theme 

inspired  ; 
Wealth  of  the  rich  man's   coffers,   help  of   the 

poor  man's  dole ; 
Strength   of  the   sturdy  arm,  and  might  of   the 

statesman's  fame,  — 
These    be   fit    themes  for   praise   in   days   that 

tried  the  soul, 
But  where   in  the   list   is   room  for   mention  of 

woman's  name  ? 

For    hers    are    the  virtues    cast    in    finer    and 

gentler  mould ; 
In  quiet  and   peaceful   paths,  her   nature   finds 

its  scope. 


72  WOMEN  OF  THE  REl'OLUTION. 

Stronger  in  loving  than  hating ;  fond  where 
the  man  is  bold, 

She  works  with  the  tools  of  patience  and  won 
derful  gifts  of  hope. 

Hers  are  the  lips  that  kiss,  the  hands  that 
nurse  and  heal, 

The  tender  voice  that  speaks  in  accents  low 
and  sweet. 

What  hath  her  life  to  do  with  clash  of  musket 
and  steel, 

Who  sits  at  the  gate  of  home,  with  children 
about  her  feet? 

Nay !    in    the   sturdy  tree   is   there   one   sap  at 

the  root 
That  mounts  to  the  stately  trunk  to  fill  it  with 

power  and  pride, 
And  one  for  the  tender  branch  that  bourgeons 

in  flower  and  fruit, 
Casting   its  welcome  shadow    on    all    that   rest 

beside  ? 
Nay !  when  the  man  is  called,  the  woman  must 

swift  arise, 
Ready  to  strengthen  and  bless,  ready  to  follow 

and  wait, 


WOMEN  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.  73 

Ready  to   crush   in   her    heart    the    anguish   of 

tears  and  sighs, 
Reading    the    message    of    God    in    the    blind 

decrees  of  Fate. 

So,   in    the    days    of    the    past,  when    Liberty 

raised  her  voice, 
Weak  as   a   new-born  babe   in   the   cradle  who 

wakes  and  calls, 
And    the    tremulous    accents    ran    through    the 

beautiful  land  of  her  choice, 
As  into  the  heart  of  the  mother  the  cry  of  her 

infant  falls,  — 
So  did   hand  of  the  woman   reach   to   hand  of 

the  man, 
Helping   with    comfort    and    love,    steeling    his 

own  for  the  strife ; 
Till  the  calm  of  her  steadfast  soul  through  his 

wavering  pulses  ran, 
And  the  blow  of  the  husband's  arm  was  nerved 

from  the  heart  of  the  wife. 

Wearing  a  homespun  gown,  or  ruling  with  easy 

sway 
The    world    of    fashion    and    pride,    gilded    by 

fortune's  sun, 


74  WOMEN  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

Rich  or  poor,  who  asks,  as  the  record  we 
read  to-day? 

Lowly  or  great,  who  cares  how  the  poor  dis 
tinctions  run  ? 

Hallowed  be  every  name  in  the  roll  of  honor 
and  fame, 

Since  on  hearthstone  and  field  they  kindled 
the  sacred  fire, 

Since  with  fostering  breath  they  nurtured  Lib 
erty's  flame, 

And  set  it  aloft  on  the  heights  to  which  he 
roes'  feet  aspire. 

Molly  of   Monmouth,   staunch    in    the  place  of 

her  fallen  brave, 
Drowning  the  cry  of  defeat  in  the  lusty  roar  of 

her  gun  ; 
Rebecca,  the  Lady  of  Buckhead,  who,  eager  for 

freedom,  gave 
Home  of  her  heart  to  the  burning,  and  smiled 

when  the  work  was  done  ; 
Abigail   Adams   of   Quincy,  noble  of   soul    and 

race, 
Reader   of   men    and   books,  wielder   of   distaff 

and  pen  :; 


WOMEN  OF    THE   REVOLUTION.         ?$ 

Martha  Wilson  of   Jersey,  moving  with    courtly 

grace ; 
Deborah    Samson,   righting    side    by   side  with 

the  men  ; 

Frances   Allen,   the   Tory,  choosing   the   better 

part, 
Led  by  Ethan  the  daring  to  follow  his  glorious 

way; 
Elizabeth    Zane  of    Wheeling,  timid,  yet   strong 

of  heart, 
Bearing   her   burden  of  powder  through  smoke 

and  flame  of  the  fray ;  — 
Each   on   the  endless   list,  through  length  and 

breadth  of  the  land, 
Winning   her    deathless    place    on    the    golden 

scroll  of  Time, 
Fair    as    in    old    Greek    days    the    women    of 

Sparta  stand 
Linked  with  the  heroes'  fame  and  sharing  their 

deeds  sublime. 

Stronger  than  we  of  to-day  in  nerve  and  mus 
cle  and  will, 

Braver  than  we  of  to-day  the  burden  of  women 
to  bear, 


76  WOMEN  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

Glad  from  their  wholesome  breasts  soft  mouths 

of  children  to  fill, 
Holding   the  crown  of   the   mother   as   highest 

that  woman  could  wear  ; 
Asking   no   larger   sphere    than    that    in  which 

bravely  shine 
Sunshine  of  home  and  heart,  stars  of  duty  and 

love  ; 
Full    of    a    purer  faith    that    rested    in    Trust 

divine, 
And     lifted     their     simple     lives    to    glory    of 

Heaven  above ; 

Plain  of    speech   and   of   dress,  as   fitted   their 

age  and  place  ; 
Meet  companions  for  men  of  sterner  creed  and 

frame, 
Yet   knowing    the  worth    of    a  word,  and    fair 

with  that  old-time  grace 
That  perfumes  like  breath  of  a  flower  the  page 

that  holds  their  name. 
Trained  within  closer  bounds  to  question  issue 

and  cause,  — 
Small  the  reach  of  their  thought  to  the  modern 

student  looks ; 


WOMEN  OF  THE  REVOLUTION.          77 

But    the    stream  within    narrower    banks    runs 

deeper  by  Nature's  laws, 
And  theirs  was  a  wiser  lore    than   the  shallow 

knowledge  of  books. 

Not  in  the  Forum's  seat  and  aping  the  wran 
gler's  course 

Did  they  strive  with  barbed  word  the  target 
of  right  to  reach; 

But  moulding  the  will  of  their  kind  with  elo 
quent,  silent  force, 

Stronger  than  sting  of  the  pen,  louder  than 
clamor  of  speech, 

Honor,  they  taught,  and  right,  and  noble  cour 
age  of  truth, 

Strength  to  suffer  and  bear  in  holy  Liberty's 
need ; 

Framing  through  turbulent  years  and  fiery 
season  of  youth 

Soul  for  the  valor  of  thought,  hand  for  the  valor 
of  deed. 

Well    that  with    praise    of    the    brave    song   of 

their  triumph  should  blend ! 
Well   that   in   joy  of    the    land    fame    of    their 

glory  find  part ! 


78  WOMEN  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

For  theirs  is  the  tone  of   the  chord  that  holds 

its  full  strength  to  the  end, 
When    music  that   dies    to  the  ear   yet   lingers 

and  sings  in  the  heart. 
Letter  and  word  may  fade  but   still   the   spirit 

survives, 
Rounding   in   ages  unborn  each   frail   distorted 

plan ; 
And    fittest    survival    is    this,    when    souls    of 

mothers  and  wives 
Bloom  in  immortal  deeds,  through  life  of  child 

and  man  ! 


FOR  THE  TWO  HUNDRED  AND  FIFTI 
ETH  ANNIVERSARY  OF  THE  CHARI 
TABLE  IRISH  SOCIETY. 

SPIRIT  of  Charity !   Angel  of  Might ! 
Lift  up  our  souls  to  the  glory  of  light ! 
Crown  of  the  conqueror !     Hope  of  the  weak ! 
Thine    is    the    homage    our    full    hearts  would 
speak. 

Thou,  too,  O  Native  Land !     Thou  whose  dear 

name 

Pale  hand  of  sorrow  hath  wedded  to  fame, 
List  to  the  sons  of  thy  tear-sprinkled  sod, 
Blending  the  love  of  their  country  and  God ! 

Erin,  Beloved  !     What  might  was  in  thee, 
When   thy  children  were   swept  like  the  leaves 

from  the  tree, 

To  move  the  sad  hearts  that  in  exile  had  flown 
To  pity  for  sorrows  more  deep  than  their  own  ? 


8O      THE   CHARITABLE  IRISH  SOCIETY. 

Gift  of  rare  grace  didst  thou  hold  from  above, 
Strengthening  thine  own  for  their  labor  of  love  ; 
Teaching  them,  friendless,  in  trial  to  lend 
Strong  hands  of  help  for  the  need  of  a  friend. 

Hymn  we  the  triumph  of  mercy  and  grace, 
Lighting  the  future  and  past  of  our  race  ; 
No  garland  fairer  may  honor  entwine 
Than  charity  claims  for  her  mission  divine. 

Valor's  proud  standard  still  droops  over  graves  ; 
Glory  may  thrive  'mid  the  groaning  of  slaves, 
But  who  his  brother  loves  —  his  place  shall  be, 
O  Thou  Omnipotent !  nearest  to  Thee. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

WHAT  maketh  Christmas  bright, 
Though  earth  be  dreary? 
Truly  I  think  'tis  so 
Because  God's  angels  know 
The  rosy  dawn  is  near  to  chase  the  night, 
And  rest  to  soothe  the  weary. 

What  maketh  Christmas  gay, 
Though  heart  be  sorry  ? 

Nay  but  I  think  because 
The  star  of  glory  draws 
Man's  soul  above,  beyond  the  stormy  way 
Of  earthly  care  and  worry ! 

\Vhat  maketh  Christmas  peace, 
Though  rage  be  striving  ? 

A  hush  of  seraphs'  wings  ; 
A  heavenly  choir  that  sings, 
Bending  before  the  Babe  that  brings  release 
From  death  and  sin's  contriving  ! 


JOHN  BOYLE  O'REILLY. 
I. 

O  FRIEND,  withdrawn   too   soon  from  love  and 

fame ! 

When  on  the  peace  of  this  fair  Sabbath  morn, 
Marring  its  joy  with  discord  most  forlorn, 
The  priest's  low  voice  did  utter  thy  dear  name, 
And  ask  that  light  perpetual  might  shine 
On  those  closed  eyes  of  thine,  — 
So  sudden  shut  to    all    the    warmth   and  glow 
Of  glad,  strong  life  below  — 
Surely  thy  sturdy  spirit  must  have  known 
The  wail  that  ran  through  all  the  people,  prone 
Before  the  altar,  on  low  bended  knee, 
In  prayer  and  tears  for  thee  ! 


II. 

Red  rose  and  white,  the  laurel  and  the  rue, 
Shall  blend  in  wreath  for  you ; 
For  the  brave  spirit,  buoyant,  unafraid 
That  ever  rose  its  brother  man  to  aid 


ft)HN  BOYLE   O'REILLY.  83 

In  strife  against  the  tyrant ;  and  to  lift 
The  poorest  life  to  reach  of  freedom's  gift. 
But  not  the  proudest  bloom 
They  place  upon  thy  tomb 
Can  touch  thy  loyal  soul  as  this  long  moan 
Slow  wrung  from  hearts  which  claimed  thee  as 
their  own. 


III. 

Not  for  thyself  we  weep  — 

Too  early  fallen  asleep, 

Before  the  dust  and  footsore  of  gray  time 

Had  wearied   thee,   and   dimmed   day's   golden 

prime. 

For  thou  hast  won  the  race 
Where  longer  lives  do  vainly  sue  for  place; 
And  evermore  thy  memories  belong 
To  native  land  and  song. 
But  for  ourselves,  who  ne'er  again  may  know 
In  the  long  years  below 
The  hand's  strong  clasp,  the  smile   so   sudden 

bright, 

The  cheery  voice,  the  sunny  eye's  delight  — 
Alas  !  what  use  the  haunting  truth  to  flee  — 
'T  is  for  thyself  we  grieve,  and  only  thee  ! 


SONNETS   AND   EPIGRAMS. 


EASTER  DAY. 

THOU  fairest  Feast  that  earth  may  ever  know ! 
Of  all  her  days  most  beautiful  and  best, 
Since  Heaven  doth  open   at  thy  glad  behest, 
And  man,  immortal,  spurn  the  clod  below. 
Thou    birthday   of    the    soul !     When  He  doth 

show 

His  costliest  gift  of  sweet  eternal  rest, 
Of  peace  and  joy  supernal,  to  the  breast 
That  life's  harsh  storm  doth  buffet  to  and  fro. 
More  gracious  art   thou  than  the  blessed  night 
When  angel  choirs  the  hymn  of  praise  began, 
And     Bethlehem's     star     made     glad     the 

happy  sod ; 

For  joy  in  thee  doth  soar  to  purer  height,  — 
Since   greater   than   the   bliss   of   God    made 

Man 

Is  thine,  which  hails  again  the  Man  made 
God. 


RAIN    IN  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

ALL  day  above  the  valley's  circle  fair,  — 
While  in  the  fields  the  broken  grasses  bowed 
Beneath      the      gray    mist      falling      like     a 

shroud,  — 

Titans  of  earth  fight  titans  of  the  air. 
Against    the    svvarth    browed    mountains,  gaunt 

and  bare, 
The    countless,  formless    squadrons    of    dark 

cloud 
Charge    and    retreat  with    crash   of    thunder 

loud, 

And,  baffled,  still  the  shock  of  onset  dare. 
Now   from   the   heights   they  win    their   stormy 

way, 

Above  the  rocky  walls  their  banners  stream  ; 
And  in  the  twilight  of  defeated  day 

Torn    by    the    lightning's     sharp    and    fitful 

gleam,  — 

I  stand,  with  all  beneath  in  ruin  hurled, 
On  one  lone  peak  above  a  buried  world. 


ISABELLA  OF  CASTILE. 

BORN   APRIL   23,    1451. 
I. 

IN  that  strange,  steadfast  light  which  men  call 

fame, 
That  backward  through  the  halls  of  time  doth 

flow, 

Piercing  the  shadows  of   the  past  to  show 
The  splendid  ghosts  of  glory  and  of  shame, 
One  figure  shines  resplendent;  the  white  flame 
Of  centuries  crowns  the  regal  brow  we  know, 
The  hands  outstretched  with  jewels,  and  the 

glow 

That  rests  for  aye  on  Isabella's  name. 
Lo !    where    she    waits ;    with     high     prophetic 

glance 

Bent  like  a  star  above  the  stormy  main, 
The   queenliest    queen    that   dwells  in   old   ro 
mance, 

The  proudest   gem   that   decks  the   crown  of 
Spain  ; 


90  ISABELLA    OF  CASTILE. 

Whose  lustre  over  sea  and  land  hath  flown 
To   this   new  world   which   she   did   make   her 
own. 

II. 

Around  her  move  the  dull  and  restless  throng 
Of  narrow  lives ;  the  fierce  and  sordid  race, 
With  visions  lowered  from  that  loftier  space 

Which  makes   the  earth    more   glad   than  light 
or  song  ; 

The  poor  ambitions  and  the  might  of  wrong; 
The  craven  fear  that  doubts  the  future's 

grace. 
While  she,  as  one  uplifted  for  a  space, 

Stands  like  a  vision,  beautiful  and  strong. 

Dear  doth  man   hold  her  for  the  zeal  inspired 
That  sped  Columbus  to  his  happy  goal. 

But  dearer  that  the  might  of  virtue  fired 
With  such  hot  flame  her  pure  and  noble  soul, 

That  in  its  light  the  fairest  life  is  shown, 

Her  sex,  her  country,  and  her  faith  have  known. 


IN  MID  OCEAN. 

HERE  surely  yet  the  gods  of  old  remain  ! 
Lo  !  Dian  moves  across  the  fields  of  air 
Calm   visaged,    pure,   the    crescent    in    her 

hair ; 

Bright  Venus  too  doth  hold  her  joyous  reign, 
Born  of  the  rosy  foam  that  dyes  the  main 
As    Hesperus     doth     call     the    winds      to 

prayer. 
And    here  where    sea    and    sky  do   blend 

most  fair 

Poseidon  comes  with  all  his  lusty  train ; 
His    plumy   coursers,    dashing     through     the 

night 
Do  strike  strange  fires  beneath  each  flying 

heel, 
As,   white    manes    loose    in    swift    imperious 

flight, 
All  soundless  through  the  realms  of  space 

they  wheel ; 

And  far  along  the  murmuring  wave   is  borne 
The  deep  melodious  music  of  his  horn. 


A   BEETHOVEN   SYMPHONY. 

THE  glorious  movement  heaven-aspiring  flies, 
Through    the    rapt    silence    of   the   listening 

hall; 
Fades    from    our    sight  the    stern    encircling 

wall 

And  dreamland  opens  to  our  dreaming  eyes. 
Forgotten  hopes  and  lost  ambitions  rise 

To  shake  the  soul  with  happy  longing.     All 

Triumphant  fancies  hold  the  heart  in  thrall ; 

The  future  brightens  under  smiling  skies. 

And  thou,  O  Master  !     On  whose  mighty  brow 

The  waves  of  thine  own  harmonies  do  break, 

High    rising     through    the    golden     orbed 

spheres 

Like  billows  round  some  stately  vessel's  prow,  — 
Do  they  no  echo  to  thine  ears  awake, 

That    reaches     where    thy   listening   spirit 
hears  ? 


PALM   SUNDAY  AT   SEA. 

IT  was  the  land  that  did  Thee  such  despite 
O    Christ,  our   Lord !    that    welcomed    Thee 

with  palms, 
With     loud     hosannahs,     and    glad     ringing 

psalms, 

Then    sudden    swept    Thee    on     to    Calvary's 
height ! 

Not  thus  disloyal  was  Thy  constant  sea ; 

That    still    doth    hymn    Thy  glory  and    Thy 
praise 

As  in  the  dawn  of  fair  creation's  days, 
And  render  unchecked  homage  unto  Thee. 

That  still  doth  sing  Thy  all  embracing  sway; 
Unto  the  silent  watches  of  the  stars, 
And    morn    fresh   burst    from    out   its    silver 

bars, 

Proclaiming   Thy  glad  power  from  day  to  day, 
And  naming  Thee  the  God  whom  we  adore, 
Who  is,  and  was,  and  shall  be,  evermore. 


NOVEMBER. 

TO-DAY,  amid  the  sobbing  of  the  rain  — 
While  pale  November  with  gaunt  finger-tips 
Proffers  the  cup  of   doom  to  Nature's  lips 

And,  scowling,  mocks  her  moan  of  bitter  pain  — 

I  cannot  mark   the   strife  'twixt  life  and   death 
For  joy  of  one  fair  thought  that  dwells  with 

me; 

A  sunny  hillside  sleeping  by  the  sea, 
Made  glad  with   bloom,  and  song-birds'   voice- 
ful  breath. 

Glad  as  a  dream  that  fills  a  stormy  night 
With    peace    and    love,  it    stirs    my   waking 

hours 

With  blue  waves  dancing  in  the  golden  light, 
With    brown    bees  dipping    deep    in   chalked 

flowers, 

And  one  swift  flight  of  swallows  drifting  by, 
Blown  like  a  cloud  across  a  summer  sky. 


JUSTIN  MCCARTHY. 

To  most  men  Fortune  grants  a  single  boon, 
And  looks  upon  her  kindly  task  as  done, 
Since,  by  such  wealth,    the   prize    of    life    is 

won, 

And    Fame's    bright    garland    cometh    late   or 
soon. 

But  here  is  one  whose  happier  lot  hath  known 
A  fourfold  gift,  to  make  his  fellows  rich 
In  thought  and  deed  strung  to  high  Honor's 
pitch. 

For  he  to  Fancy's  fairy  realm   hath  flown, 

And  won  his  knighthood  ;  he  hath  plucked  the 

truth 
From   History's   masking,  and   laid  bare  her 

face; 
Renown  hath  found   him   in  the  Statesman's 

place ; 

The  Patriot's  heart  is  his  in  age  as  youth  ; 
Choose  for  his  wreath  —  and   bid    the    emblem 

stand  — 
The  four-leafed  Shamrock  of  his  native  land  ! 


TO  ONE  BELOVED. 

I   WILL    not    wish    thee    wealth,    since    wealth 

may  bring 

But  empty  pleasure,  false  and  hollow  joys 
O'ertopping  peace  with  rude  and  empty  noise, 

Till  life  shall  droop  like  bird  on  broken  wing; 

Nor  will  I  ask  for  years,  since  time  may    be 
A  thing  beyond  all  other  strangely  sad, 
A  cursed  gift  to  make  men  drunk  or  mad, 

With  sordid  care  and  pressing  misery ; 

But  I  would  crave  for  thee  a  rarer  boon ; 
A  spirit  tuned  to  such  serene  accord 
—  As  one  of  those  beloved  of  the  Lord  — 
That  nought  of  all  that  cometh,  late  or  soon, 
Be  it  of  life  or  death,  of  joy  or  dole, 
Can  fret  the  calm  of  thy  most  constant  soul. 


THE  GIFT  OF  VISION. 

"ONCE,  in  the  dark,  I  knew  a  rose  was  near, 
Because  her  lips  had  kissed  the  summer  air 
And    left    their     haunting    perfume    floating 
there. 

But  when  I  fain  would  pluck  it  for  my  dear, 

Lo !  nought  of  all  its  sweet  could  I  attain, 
But  in  its  stead  sharp   thorns   that   sore  did 

fret 
My  eager  hands,  and  force  them  to  forget 

Their  loving  quest  for  smart  and  bitter  pain. 

Shall  I  then  cheat  my  fancy  with  the  thought 
No  flower  was  there  within  the  prickly  space, 
To  add  its  lustre  to  my  lady's  grace, 

Or  give  me  the  fair  prize  my  longing  sought  ? 
Nay !  for  behind  its  thorn  the  rose  must  be, 
If  we,  who  search  so  blindly,  could  but  see !  " 


MORNING   IN  THE  CITY. 

A  PALE  blue  sky,  suffused  with  tender  light ; 

A  chirp  of  sparrows  underneath  tall  eaves  ; 

A  veiling  mist  of  newly  budded  leaves 
That  softly  screen  the  city's  homes  from  sight ; 

A  subtle  incense  in  the  quiet  air, 

Which  so  uplifts  the  sense  of  common  things 
That  life  soars  upward  as  if  borne  on  wings, 

And  every  thought  becomes  a  silent  prayer. 

O  promise  fairer  than  the  perfect  day 
Of  golden  summer !     Thou  divine  unrest 
That  meets  its  twin  desire  in  every  breast 
This  happy  morning  !   Teach  our  lives  the  way 
To  learn  of  thee  thy  secret  sweet  and  old, 
The  Midas  touch  that  turns  all  dross  to  gold. 


HOSTAGES. 

ALL  men  must  pay  some  ransom  unto  Fate 
For  this  strange  boon  of  living.     Blest  is  he 
Who  with    some    loss  of   gold   or    land    goes 

free  ; 

Nor  yet  unhappy  is  his  fair  estate 
On  whom  kind  death  most  tenderly  doth  wait 
To  take    his  treasure.     Larger  swells  the  fee 
He    pays  to  Fortune,  from  whom   love    doth 
flee, 

• 

Or  change  unto  the  scowling  face  of  hate. 
More  sad  than  these,  his  darkly  mournful  lot 
Whose  hand  the  clasp  of    friendship   hath   for 
got; 

But  deadliest  price  of  all  the  soul  must  pay, 
Which  for  some  lure  of  earthly  power  or  pride 
Hath  cast  its  heritage  of  heaven  aside, 

And  for  such  gaud  hath  given  itself  away. 


NANTASKET. 

O  THOU  more  fair  than  fairer  scenes  to  me  ! 
Where  the  long  curve  of  silver  shining  sand, 
Like  some  slim  arm  stretched  outward  from 

the  land, 

Doth  woo  the  soft  embracing  of  the  sea. 
Where  green  hills  lift  their  sunny  uplands  free 
Above  the  tall  white  cliffs,  that  faithful  stand 
As  sentinels  to  guard  the  virgin  strand 
In  lonely,  ^lonesome  beauty  !     Graciously 
About  thee  dreams  of  love  and  peace  do  lie ; 
Of    bright    days    passed   in    sweet   enduring 

rest; 
Of  happy  thought,  no   wave   of  grief   hath 

drowned ; 

Outside,  the  winter's  stormy  wings  may  fly, 
But  never  droop  their  shadow  on  thy  breast, 
O    golden    shore !    with    fadeless    summer 
crowned. 


IN  ANSWER. 

DEAREST   my  love !      You   ask   me  which  were 

best  : 

Thus  to  be  torn  by  such  sharp  lance  of  pain 
As     rends    two    lives   which    may  not    meet 

again, 

Or  never  to  have  tasted  love's  unrest, 
—  That  woful  gladness  burning  in  the  breast 
Which  sweeter  is  than  all  earth's  richer  gain. 
What  need  to  question,  while  there  doth  re 
main 

A  single  thought  to  do  the  heart's  behest. 
Is  earth  so  wide  we  cannot  bridge  its  space  ? 
Is  heaven  so  high  we  cannot  scale  its  bars 
And  hold  our  fond  communion  face  to  face 

Beyond  the  silent  portal  of  the  stars  ? 
This    is    proud    grief.      But    O    the    famished 

heart ! 
The  poor,  pale  joy,  had  we  two  dwelt  apart  J 


SALVE ! 

THOU  pulse  of  joy  !  whose  throb  beats  time 
For  daisied  field,  for  blossoming  spray, 
Set  all  the  prose  of  life  to  rhyme  ! 
To  dance  of  leaf,  and  song-bird's  chime 
Ring  in  the  May ! 


CONTRADICTION. 

THE  flush  of  rage  was  on  her  cheek, 

And  scorn  flashed  lightning  from  her  eye, — 

But  trembling  lips  refused  to  speak, 

And  love,  though  mute,  gave  wrath  the  lie. 


SEQUENCE. 

THERE  's    not    a    breath    of    Summer's  joy  and 

glory 

But  whispers  of  the  Autumn  twilight  near  ; 
There's  not  a  page  of  Winter's  saddest  story 
But    turns    to     meet     the     dawning     of     the 

year. 

Thus  fear  doth  wait  on   hope   and   hope   on 
fear. 


KISMET. 

IN  golden  lands  of  sunshine  and  of  love, 
One  sported,  glad  as  bright-winged  birds  in 

flight; 
From  furrowed  seas,  while  storm  winds  crashed 

above, 
One  lifted  hopeless  eyes  to  meet  the  night. 

Lo !     how    the      gods     do    cheat    our    human 

powers 

Of  skill  to  read  the  future  from  the  past ! 
Death,  like  a  serpent,  bit  among  the  flowers, 
Life    rode    triumphant     on     the    whirlwind's 
blast ! 


AT  THE   CHILDREN'S   HOUR. 


THE  LITTLE   SAILOR  KISS. 

O  KISSES  they  are  plenty 

As  blossoms  on  the  tree ! 
And  be  they  one  or  twenty 

They  're  sweet  to  you  and  me  ; 
And  some  are  for  the  forehead,  and   some  are 

for  the  lips, 
And  some  are  for  the   rosy  cheeks,  and   some 

for  finger-tips, 
And    some     are    for    the     dimples,  —  but    the 

sweetest  one  is  this, 

When  the  bonny,  bonny  bairnie  gives  his  little 
sailor  kiss  ! 

0  I  will  kiss  this  sailor, 
This  sailor  lad  so  true  ! 

1  would  not  kiss  a  nailer, 
A  carpenter,  or  tailor, 

But  I  will  kiss  this  sailor 

With  bonny  eyes  of  blue  ; 

With   a  sonsy  smile  and    yellow  hair   to    snare 
the  sunshine  in, 


IIO  THE  LITTLE  SAILOR  KISS. 

With  a  laughing  mouth,  and  a  rosy  cheek,  and 

a  dimple  in  the  chin  ; 
Three    years    old,  and   a   heart  of  gold  —  Ah! 

who  would  care  to  miss 
The  chance   to  meet  my  darling  with  his  little 

sailor  kiss. 

For  then  the  tiny  fingers 

Creep,  pinching,  to  your  face 
With  a  touch  that  thrills  and  lingers  ; 

And  the  rosy  palms  find  place 
To  come  pressing  and  caressing  with  soft  and 

gentle  touch, 
Not    teasing  you   too   little,  and  yet   not   over 

much, 
While  full  of  love  and  laughter  the  pretty  blue 

eyes  glow 
And  red   lips    tightly  puckered   pout   roguishly 

below. 
O    tell    me,  ye  who    know    it,  is    there   in    the 

world  such  bliss, 
As  when    the    bonny  bairnie    gives    his    little 

sailor  kiss ! 


THE  NAME  OF  MARY. 

MARY,  we  dared  to  call  our  little  maid 
Because  upon  the  Virgin's  day  she  came  ; 
O  Gracious  Mother  !  lend  thy  holy  aid 
To  give  her  life  the  beauty  of  her  name ! 


A  SONG  WITHOUT  WORDS. 

"  PLAY  us  a  tune,"  cried  the  children  : 

"  Something  merry  and  sweet 
Like  birds  that  sing  in  the  summer; 

Or  nodding  tips  o'  the  wheat 
Dancing  across  the  meadows 

While  the  warm  sun  burns  and  glows,  — 
Till  we  fancy  we  smell  in  Winter 

The  breath  of  a  sweet  June  rose." 

"Play  us  a  tune,"  said  the  Mother: 

"  Something  tender  and  low, 
Like  a  thought  that  comes  in  the  Autumn 

When  leaves  are  ready  to  go ; 
When  the  fire  on  the  hearth  is  lighted, 

And  we  know  not  which  is  best  — 
The  long  bright  evenings  coming, 

Or  the  long  bright  days  at  rest." 

And  the  dear  little  artist  bending 

Over  the  swaying  bow, 
Drew  tones  so  merry  and  gladsome 

And  tones  so  soft  and  low 


A   SONG    WITHOUT  WORDS.  113 

That  we  scarce  could  tell,  who  listened, 
Which  song  had  the  sweetest  words,  — 

The  one  that  sang  of  the  fireside, 
Or  the  one  that  sang  of  the  birds. 


HELD  IN  SIGHT. 

FAR  down  the  long  and  busy  street 

A  little  form  appears, 
So  small  as  yet  no  eye  may  trace 
The  features  of  the  darling  face, 

Bright  with  its  six  glad  years. 

No  eye  save  mine,  that  keen  with  love 

Speeds  forth  its  mark  to  find  ; 
Unswerved  by  tumult  deep  and  loud, 
By  hurrying  feet  and  surging  crowd, 
That  well  its  search  might  blind. 

Clearly,  as  if  it  stood  alone 

Upon  some  wind-swept  lea, 
Or  lifted  boldly  into  sight 
Above  the  crest  of  some  brave  height, 

The  dear  wee  shape  I  see. 

Unknown,  unmarked  amid  the  throng, 

His  absence  who  would  note  ? 
Yet  sun  and  moon  and  stars  in  flight 


HELD  IN  SIGHT.  1 1 5 

Less  dark  would  leave  the  black,  blind  night 
Above  sad  earth  to  float, — 

Than  on  my  soul  the  shade  would  fall, 

If  two  small  pattering  feet 
That  on  the  crowded  pathway  stray, 
Should  sudden  droop  and  turn  away, 

From  out  life's  busy  street. 

Dear  God !  when  sometimes  fears  oppress 

Lest  Thy  keen  glance  decline 
Its  search  for  some  poor,  drifting  soul,  — 
The  doubt  forgive,  the  fear  control  ; 

Is  our  love  more  than  Thine  ? 


THE  FIRST  STEP. 

TO-NIGHT  as  the  tender  gloaming 

Was  sinking  in  evening's  gloom, 
And  only  the  glow  of  the  firelight 

Brightened  the  dark'ning  room, 
I  laughed  with  the  gay  heart-gladness 

That  only  to  mothers  is  known, 
For  the  beautiful  brown-eyed  baby 

Took  his  first  step  alone. 

Hurriedly  running  to  meet  him 

Came  trooping  the  household  band, 
Joyous,  loving,  and  eager 

To  reach  him  a  helping  hand  ; 
To  watch  him  in  silent  rapture, 

To  cheer  him  with  happy  noise, 
My  one  little  fair-faced  daughter 

And  four  brown  romping  boys. 

Leaving  the  sheltering  arms 
That  fain  would  bid  him  rest 

Close  to  the  love  and  the  longing, 
Near  to  the  mother's  breast, 


THE  FIRST  STEP. 

Wild  with  laughter  and  daring, 

Gleefully  flying  from  me, 
He  stumbled  across  through  the  shadows 

To  rest  at  his  father's  knee. 

Baby,  my  dainty  darling, 

Stepping  so  brave  and  bright 
With  flutter  of  lace  and  ribbon 

Out  of  my  arms  to-night, 
Helped  in  thy  pretty  ambition 

With  tenderness  blessed  to  see, 
Sheltered,  upheld,  and  protected,  — 

How  will  the  last  step  be  ? 

See,  we  are  all  beside  you, 

Urging  and  beckoning  on  ; 
Watching  lest  aught  betide  you 

Till  the  safe  near  goal  is  won  ; 
Guiding  the  faltering  footsteps 

That  tremble  and  fear  to  fall,  — 
How  will  it  be,  my  darling, 

With  the  last  sad  step  of  all? 

Nay  !     Shall  we  dare  to  question  ; 

Knowing  that  One  more  fond 
Than  all  our  tenderest  loving, 

Will  guide  the  weak  feet  beyond ! 


Il8  THE  FIRST  STEP. 

And  knowing  beside,  my  dearest, 

That  whenever  the  summons,  't  will  be 

But  a  stumbling  step  through  the  shadow, 
Then  rest  —  at  the  Father's  knee. 


TO   A  LITTLE  LAD. 

HEY  Niddy  Noddy  ! 

What  is  this  I  see  ! 
Vowing  he  is  no'  for  bed, 
Tho'  his  bonny  drowsy  head 
Tosses  up  an'  tosses  down 

Like  a  ship  at  sea ! 
Winking  an'  blinking 

Eyes  in  shadow  creep, 
Straying  an'  playing 

Hide  an'  seek  wi'  sleep ; 
Whiles  the  flying  laughter  slips 

Up  his  face  astray ; 
Whiles  the  dimples  round  the  lips 

Fleet  and  fly  away; 
Not  a  notion  gude  or  bad 
Is  in  that  curly  head,  — 
Hoot !  my  little  silly  lad 
Off  wi'  ye  to  bed ! 

Ho  Niddy  Noddy! 

And  are  ye  waking  yet ! 


I2O  TO  A   LITTLE  LAD. 

Sitting  there  without  a  word, 
Gaping  like  a  hungry  bird, 
Is  na  that  a  weary  sight 
To  make  a  body  fret  ? 
Mundering  an'  blundering 

Along  his  sleepy  way, 
Lowering  an'  glowering 

Wi'  nought  at  all  to  say; 
Daur  ye  now  to  tell  a  fib  ! 

Say  it  is  na  late, 
Wi'  yon  little  lonesome  crib, 

Waiting  for  its  mate  ; 
Mickle  sense,  or  good  or  bad, 

Is  in  that  curly  head  ; 
But  an'  ye  'd  mak  it  more,  my  lad, 
Off  wi'  ye  to  bed  ! 


A  VALENTINE. 

To  the  Sweetest, 
The  Dearest, 
The  Truest, 
The  Best; 

To  a   voice   that   is   sweet   as   a  bird's   in   the 
nest ; 

To   a   cheek   like   the   flush   on   the   leaf    of   a 
rose; 

To  a  dear  little,  tip-tilted  love  of  a  nose ; 

To  lips  that  have  gathered  the  glory  of  bloom 

From  crimson  carnations  deep  spiced  with  per 
fume  ; 

To  eyes  that  are  dark  as  the  beauty  of   night, 

Yet  filled  with  star-splinters  of  arrowy  light ; 

To  a  smile  that 's   as   glad   as  the   laughter  of 
dawn 

When  the  veil   of   the  darkness  is   slowly  with 
drawn  ; 

To  a   heart  —  but  what   symbol   that  is  not  di 
vine 

Can  I  choose  for  the  heart  of   my  dear  valen 
tine  ? 


122  A    VALENTINE. 

And  what  words  can  I  frame  that  will  do  my 

behest, 

That  will  bear  all  my  love,  with  a  lover's  fond 
zest, 

To  the  Dearest, 

The  Sweetest, 
The  Truest, 
The  Best! 


THE   WEE   THING! 

OH  !  Bairnies  hae  I  mony 

That  rin  aboot  the  hause; 
An'  ane  is  fair  an'  gentle, 

Saft  steppit  as  a  mause  — 
An'  ane  is  bauld  and  bonnie, 

Wi'  blue  een  glintin'  braw ; 
But  the  sonsy,  stumblin'  wee  thing 

Is  dearest  o'  them  a' ! 

'T  is  weel  I  loe  my  Jessie, 

Puir  bud  sae  douce  and  sweet,  — 
Wi'  smile  that  maks  me  gladsome, 

An'  voice  that  gars  me  greet ! 
An'  weel  I  loe  blithe  Donald, 

An'  Jack  so  gey  an  sma'  — 
But  the  hirplin,  toddlin'  wee  thing 

Is  dearest  o'  them  a' ! 

There  's  Sandy  straught  an'  winsome, 

Sae  strappin'  for  his  age, 
Fu'  taller  than  the  gudeman, 

An'  airnin'  manly  wage,  — 


124  THE    WEE    THING  I 

Eh  !  but  the  tears  do  bleer  my  een 
When  on  his  face  they  fa'  — 

But  still  that  fechless  wee  thing 
Is  dearest  o'  them  a' ! 

I  daurna  think  it  ower 

For  fear  it  wad  be  sin  ; 
I  daurna  let  the  lips  spak  oot 

The  thocht  that  bides  within ; 
I  pray  the  Lord  baith  nicht  an'  morn, 

That  gude  may  each  befa', 
But  the  pray'r  that  names  my  wee  thing 

Is  the  pray  'r  that  leads  them  a' ! 


LOST. 

LOST  !     Lost !    Lost ! 

A  baby  with  soft  brown  hair, 

Dimpled  and  fair  as  a  rose, 

From  crown  of  his  head  to  his  toes 
Lovely  beyond  compare ; 
White  was  his  gown  and  sweet, 

With  a  beautiful  sash  of  red, 
The  loveliest  shoes  on  his  feet, 

The  loveliest  hat  on  his  head  ; 
And  such  a  glow  on  his  cheek, 
Like  a  maple  leaf  touched  with  frost,  - 
No  wonder  my  heart  grows  weak 
W7hen  I  think  of  the  baby  I  lost ! 

Lost !     Lost !     Lost ! 

O  surely  some  one  must  know 
To  what  land  sunny  and  bright 
Glowing  with  love  and  delight 

The  dear  lost  babies  go  ! 

If  it  were  not  fair  to  see, 
Full  to  the  brim  with  joy, 


126  LOST. 

Do  you  think  he  would  stay  from  me, 

My  beautiful  baby  boy  ; 
Or  that  all  the  others  would  go, 
Like  leaves  by  the  winter  tossed, 
From  the  mothers  who  loved  them  so 
To  the  land  of  the  babies  lost! 

Lost !     Lost  1    Lost ! 

They  have  left  me  here  in  his  place 
A  boy  with  a  trousers  new, 
And  a  jersey  jacket  of  blue, 

And  a  dear  little  peach  bloom  face. 

He  's  brave  and  bonny  and  brown  ; 

He  's  swift  as  the  wind,  and  tall ; 

He  can  run  all  over  the  town  ; 

He  owns  a  bat  and  a  ball ; 

He  has  a  pocket  and  knife  ; 

He  can  talk  when  his  will  is  crossed,  - 

I  love  him  as  much  as  my  life, 

But  —  I  want  the  baby  I  lost ! 


THE  FIRST  BATTLE. 

BENEATH  the  sunshine  of  his  eyes, 

A  fine  resolve  is  glinting  • 
A  frown  across  the  smooth  brow  lies, 

Of  strife  and  courage  hinting. 

For  face  to  face  to-day  have  met, 

In  unfamiliar  courses, 
The  strange,  mysterious  alphabet, 

And  my  small  hero's  forces. 

He  looks ;  he  strives  ;  a  puzzled  pain 
Amid  the  dimples  showing ; 

Then  tugs  again  with  might  and  main, 
—  Till  victory's  ardor  glowing 

Runs  up  its  red  flag  to  his  cheek ; 

Down  fall  the  broken  fetters  ; 
And  lo  !  with  pride  he  cannot  speak 

The  first  three  conquered  letters ! 

Ah  !  winsome  little  hero  mine  ! 
To-day  in  strife  enlisted, 


1 28  THE  FIRST  BA  TTLE. 

With  cheeks  aglow  and  eyes  ashine 
For  one  small  foe  resisted,  — 

We  who  have  grown  so  sadly  wise, 
Who  smile  in  fond  derision,  — 

How  do  we  know  but  God's  clear  eyes, 
From  wider  fields  of  vision, 

May  watch  our  battle  fields  of  life 
With  tender,  loving  sweetness; 

Yet  read  in  triumph,  as  in  strife, 
The  same  poor  incompleteness. 


IN   LIGHTER   MOOD. 


AN  ENIGMA. 
FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  NADAUD. 

KIND  and  cruel  is  her  play, 

Fierce  and  gentle  both  is  she, 
Fickle  as  the  winds  astray, 

Constant  as  the  heavens  be  ; 
Her  caprices  without  number 

Every  shape  and  color  take, 
Sometimes  joyous,  sometimes  sombre, 

Smiles  and  tears  together  wake. 
Child  she  is,  and  woman  too ; 

Naught  more  mild,  or  harsh,  can  be, 
—  What !  you  think  I  speak  of  you  ? 

Nay  !     I  'm  talking  of  the  Sea. 

Now  't  is  troubled,  now  't  is  calm ; 

Now  it  soothes  like  song  of  birds ; 
Often  angry,  then  like  balm 

Lisping  sweet  and  loving  words. 
Devil  't  is  and  angel  bright, 

Now  inviting,  now  repelling, 


132  AN  ENIGMA. 

Its  fair  face  and  blue  eyes  light 

Woo  men  down  to  death's  cold  dwelling ; 
Naught  more  mild,  or  harsh,  can  be, 

Wound  it  gives,  but  healing  too; 
—  What !  you  think  I  mean  the  Sea  ? 

Dearest,  nay !     I  speak  of  you  ! 


A  CHARACTER   SKETCH. 

SHE  smiled,  then  frowned,  then  shook  her  head 

And  scowled  beneath  her  lashes  ; 
A  dozen  pearly  tears  she  shed, 

Then  laughed  in  sunny  flashes  ; 
She  pouted,  flirted,  scolded,  cried,  — 

And  still  you  could  not  blame  her, 
For  although  forty  moods  she  tried, 

Yet  every  one  became  her. 

She  gossiped  in  the  sweetest  words, 

Like  south  winds  that  astray  go  ; 
She  sang  as  sing  the  summer  birds, 

She  shrieked  like  a  virago  ; 
One  day  she  dressed  in  gauzy  green, 

The  next  wrapped  ermine  round  her; 
For  oh !  she  was  a  saucy  quean, 

And  so  her  lovers  found  her  ! 

Sometimes  such  peace  was  in  her  glance 
'T  was  like  a  dream  of  Sundays  ; 


134  A    CHARACTER  SKETCH. 

Sometimes  her  eyes  would  look  askance, 
As  dark  as  stormy  Mondays  ; 

She  'd  scorch  you  like  a  torrid  flame, 
She  'd  freeze  you  —  if  you  'd  let  her ; 

For  April  was  the  lady's  name, 
Perchance  you  may  have  met  her  ! 


CONSTANTIA   INCONSTANS. 

INCONSTANT,  did  you  call  the  maid, 
Because  she  turned  her  face  away 

And  to  your  friend  her  smiles  displayed  ? 

Inconstant,  did  you  call  the  maid  ? 

Nay  ?  but  in  constant  charm  arrayed 
She  shines  like  yon  revolving  ray. 

Inconstant,  did  you  call  the  maid, 
Because  she  turned  her  face  away  ? 


WITH   A   SILKEN   PURSE. 

IF  this  were  a  fairy  gift,  dear, 

And  I  were  a  fairy  too, 
The  purse  should  never  be  empty 

The  whole  of  the  long  year  through. 

The  longest  summer  day,  dear, 

And  the  longest  winter  night, 
The  purse  should  be  always  heavy 

And  your  heart  be  always  light. 

But  the  fairies  have  flown  away,  dear, 

Alas !  that  the  words  are  true, 
And  there 's  nothing  to  fill  the  silken  mesh 

But  the  gold  of  my  love  for  you. 


NOIR. 


I  'D  be  remembered,  not  alone 

In  those  rare  moments  when  the  sense 

Of  the  divine  in  her  hath  grown 

To  thoughts  all  radiant  and  intense  ; 

But  in  that  tender  human  mood, 

That  comes  alike  to  saint  and  sinner, 

When  homely  happy  thoughts  intrude 

—  Just  after  dinner. 

'T  is  then  when  life  is  at  its  ease, 

The  body  in  its  softest  raiment, 
No  pain  to  fret,  no  doubts  to  tease 

With  thought  of  copy,  debt,  or  payment, 
That  like  her  coffee,  clear  and  strong, 

While  care's  dull  clouds  grew  thin  and  thin 

ner, 
I  'd  wish  kind  fate  would  bring  me  on 

—  Just  after  dinner. 


TO   A  VERY   LEARNED   LADY  WITH 
A   KNITTING  BASKET. 

QUOTH  she,  —  't  was  in  the  golden  haze 
Of  summer  time,  when  bees  were  flitting 

And  earth  was  singing  roundelays, — 

Quoth  she  :  "  I  fain  would  study  knitting." 

In  forty  tongues  the  girl  could  speak, 
Mild  as  she  looked  in  sunshine  sitting  ; 

Read  Spanish,  Gaelic,  Latin,  Greek, 
But  ah  !  she  did  not  know  her  knitting. 

Philosophies  she  'd  scampered  through 
To  fit  her  mind  for  fine  hair  splitting  ; 

Euclid  and  poets  both  she  knew ; 
—  How  could  she  have  forgotten  knitting ! 

Go,  little  basket,  to  her  shrine ; 

Speak  to  her  heart  in  accents  fitting; 
And  let  the  happy  task  be  thine 

To  teach  her  pretty  hands  their  knitting. 


TO  A    VERY  LEARNED  LADY.  139 

Breathe  —  if  a  Basket  can  —  this  rune  : 
I  love  her,  though  I  thus  am  twitting  ; 

And  let  some  thought  of  me  keep  tune 
With  every  stitch  she  sets  in  knitting. 


ON   A  THERMOMETER. 

THIS  is  not,  as  it  seems  to  be, 

A  simple  Thermo  Meter ; 
Its  mission  is  for  you  and  me 

Of  nobler  use  and  sweeter. 

Perhaps  in  measuring  Fahrenheit 
'T  will  frisky  be  and  arch,  dear  ; 

Mark  zero  for  a  summer  night 
And  burning  heat  in  March,  dear. 

But  if  you  want  the  temperature 
Of  something  holier,  higher, — 

Of  atmospheres  more  fine  and  pure, 
Than  our  poor  frost  and  fire. — 

By  day  or  night,  in  sun  or  rain, 
'T  will  always  tell  you  true,  dear, 

The  warmth  of  heart  between  us  twain, 
And  my  fond  love  for  you,  dear. 


A   CONUNDRUM. 

FOR  Philip's  heart  one  summer  bright 
I  saw  two  well-bred  maidens  fight 

—  You  might  not  think  it  from  their  air 
So  blithesome,  frank,  and  debonaire, 
But  I,  from  wisdom's  dear-bought  height 
Could  read  the  pretty  game  aright, 
And  oft  amid  their  laughter  light 

I  asked  myself — "Now!  dark,  or  fair? 
Which  one  ? 

Here  are  his  wedding  cards  to-night  ; 

But  ere  I  scan  the  paste-board  white 
I  fain  would  try,  did  I  but  dare, 
To  guess  what  name  is  written  there, 

And  read,  by  gift  of  second  sight, 
Which  won  ! 


WITH   A   FOUR-LEAFED   CLOVER. 

LOVE  be  true  to  her ;  Life  be  dear  to  her  ; 
Health   stay  close   to    her  ;  Joy   draw   near   to 

her ; 

Fortune,  find  what  your  gifts  can  do  for  her; 
Search  your  treasure-house  through  and  through 

for  her; 

Follow  her  steps  the  wide  world  over ;  — 
You  must,  for  here  is  the  Four-leafed   Clover. 


WITH   A   PICTURE  OF  LORELEI. 

You  do  not  sit,  a  smiling  fate, 
Weaving  a  sweet  but  cruel  song, 

Watching  meanwhile,  till  soon  or  late 
Your  ill-starred  victim  floats  along  ; 

You  do  not  weave  your  spells  apart, 

To  take  man's  life  or  break  man's  heart, 
To  torture  him  with  hope  and  fear, — 
So  you  are  not  like  Lorelei,  dear ! 

Yet  with  those  large,  gray,  loving  eyes, 
That  sometimes  woo  and  sometimes  tease, 

With  great  heart  hid  in  faint  disguise, 
With  fair  hands  touching  ivory  keys, — 

In  ways  no  words  of  mine  can  tell 

You  charm  not  wisely  but  too  well ; 
Enraptured,  lost,  you  draw  us  near,  — 
And  so  you  are  like  Lorelei,  dear  ! 


PHILOSOPHY. 

THE  saucy  wind  may  take  my  hat, 
And  send  it  rolling  far  and  free. 

I  need  not  lose  my  head  for  that; 

The  saucy  wind  may  take  my  hat, 

I  shall  not  run,  for  I  'm  too  fat  — 
Some  other  fool  shall  run  for  me  1 

The  saucy  wind  may  take  my  hat 
And  send  it  rolling  far  and  free. 


INDIAN   SUMMER. 

SHE  should  be  bland  and  debonair, 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  misty  splendor, 

Wear  jewels  in  her  dusky  hair, 
And  speak  in  accents  deep  and  tender  ; 

Her  robes  of  purple  and  of  gold 
Should  glad  the  sense  of  each  new  comer, 

Her  gait  confess  the  gods  of  old  — 
This  Indian  summer. 

Alas  !  she  's  dressed  in  russet-gray  ! 
She 's  pinched  and  cold  from  toe  to  shoulder ; 

Shrewish  as  wench  on  washing  day, 
Her  sharp  breath  chills  the  rash  beholder ; 

A  shrilling  voice,  a  jerky  walk, 
A  glance  to  make  dumb  men  grow  dumber,  — 

Good  heavens  !     I  'd  like  to  tomahawk 
This  Indian  —  summer. 


A  DEFINITION. 

A  PALIMPSEST  !     Yes,  that 's  the  name 
For  this  sweet  heart  of  lovely  Molly. 
But  every  imprint  is  the  same  — 
Another  screed  of  love,  and  folly. 


A  PHOTOGRAPH. 

SHE  hath  a  smile  is  half  divine, 

So  brilliant  and  so  tender ; 
In  dusky  light  her  dark  eyes  shine 

Like  stars  in  midnight  splendor ; 
And  dusky  too  her  falling  hair, 

That  hides  the  rich  cheek,  glowing 
With  blushes  such  as  dawn  might  wear 

When  buds  of  June  are  blowing  ! 

She  hath  a  form  that  might  compare 

With  Hebe's  fabled  glory; 
A  step  as  light ;  a  joyous  air 

That  tells  her  happy  story  ; 
Her  voice  is  sweet,  but  sweeter  far 

The  soul  its  tones  informing, 
With  hope  to  drive  dull  grief  afar, 

And  love  that  quiets  storming. 

She  hath  a  mind  which  hap'ly  blends 
Grave  sense  and  fancies  lighter ; 


148  A  PHOTOGRAPH. 

The  root  of  deepest  musing  ends 

In  thought  like  flowers,  but  brighter; 

Her  sprightly  wit  doth  temper  cares 
With  gladder  touch  and  finer, 

Till  life  doth  trip  to  livelier  airs, 
And  leave  its  sombre  minor. 

She  hath  —  but  wherefore  try  to  reach 

Fit  emblems  for  her  sweetness, 
Or  torture  faint  and  broken  speech 

To  mirror  her  completeness ! 
Her  name  ?  her  state  ?     Ah  !  wherefore  pain 

My  skill  in  necromancy ! 
She  dwells  in  my  Chateau  in  Spain, 

She  is  not  fact,  but  Fancy! 


MARCH ! 

HIE!  with  your  blustering! 

Ho !  with  your  flustering ! 
Fie  on  you,  thinking  of  frighting  us,  March  ! 

Scowl  if  you  dare  now, 

Little  we  care  now, 

Whether  you  're  loving  or  slighting  us,  March  ! 
Sure  when    your    brow    is    all    dark   with    the 

frown 
Sullen  and  black,  and  the  tears  dropping  down, 

Knowing  you  well  now, 

Faith  we  can  tell  now, 
There  's  little  cause  to  be  grieving  us,  March. 

Undher  your  whining 

Your  blue  eyes  are  shining  — 
You  thief  of  the  world  for  deceiving  us,  March ! 

Bolder  an'  bolder  now, 

Turn  the  cold  shoulder  now, 
Snowing  and  blowing  —  O  shame  on  you,  March! 

But  it 's  your  nature, 

You  obstinate  crayture, 
I'll  not  be  throwing  the  blame  on  you,  March! 


1 50  MARCH. 

Sometimes,  in  spite  of  the  wrath  in  your  eye, 
The  smile  on  your  lip  gives  bad  temper  the  lie ; 
An'  shaming  the  growl  in  your  voice  when  you 

speak, 

The     dimples    of     merriment    dance    in    your 
cheek,  — 

O  but  you  're  cute  now, 

Hiding  the  truth  now, 
Cutting  your  capers  and  grieving  us,  March. 

Scolding  and  pleasing, 

Warming  and  freezing, 
You  thief  of  the  world  for  deceiving  us,  March ! 

Up  from  their  narrow  beds, 
Raising  their  purty  heads, 
Though  your  wet  blankets  you  throw  on  them, 
March  ! 

See  the  small  posies  now, 
Lifting  their  noses  now, 

Sniffing  the  sunbeams  aglow  on  them,  March. 
Mighty  an'  proud  as  the  king  on  his  throne, 
There  's  a  sweet  coaxin'  way  that  you  have  of 

your  own, 
Like    a    play    actor    taking    the  winter's    dark 

part, 

With  the  smile    of   the    summer    asleep   in  his 
heart ;  — 


MARCH.  I  5  I 

So  you  may  blow  now, 

Rain,  hail,  an'  snow  now, 
Little  your  tricks  will  be  grieving  us,  March ! 

We  know  your  way  now, 

Sure  it 's  all  play  now, 
You  thief  of  the  world  for  deceiving  us,  March ! 


A   GROUP  OF  MEXICAN   POEMS. 


GUADALUPE. 

ONCE  Cupid's  eyes  were  clear, 

Open  and  kind, 
But  alas !  you,  my  dear, 

He  chanced  to  find ; 
Only  one  glance  he  gave,  — 
Since  then,  who  paints  the  knave 

Must  paint  him  blind. 
V 

MIGUEL  ULLOA. 


ELENA. 

IF,  for  beautiful  Helen  of  old, 

Chosen  by  Paris,  a  city  fell 
And  heroes  of  grace  spent  life  and  gold,  — 

How  many  Troys  under  Fate's  grim  spell 
Would  perish  by  fire  and  sword  for  thee 
If  each  one  who  sees  thee  might  Paris  be  1 

AUGUSTIN  LAZO. 


ROSARIO.1 

MANY  a  beautiful  brown  girl  splendid, 

With  eyes  of  the  night  and  morning  blended, 

Springs  from  the  soil  of  Vera  Cruz  ; 
But  amid  all  the  loveliest  faces, 
Show  me  but  one  of  your  height  and  graces, 
If  but  the  gods  would  let  me  choose. 

Exquisite  rose  of  perfection  !     Soon 

You  can  no  longer  hide  ;  and  then 
When  your  bright  face  on  the  balcony  shines 
Under  your  window  will  hang,  as  at  shrines, 
Rosaries,  made  from  the  hearts  of  men. 

MANUEL  FLORES. 
1  Rosario,  means  also  a  rosary. 


JOSEFINA. 

FROM  the  chalice  of  her  lips, 
Perfume  like  a  nectar  slips  ; 
And  her  accents,  pure  and  fine, 
Fill  the  heart  with  joy  divine. 

In  her  eyes  benignant  lie 
Glories  of  the  sunset  sky, 
That  in  radiant  splendor  preach 
Eloquence  that  passeth  speech. 

If  her  beauty  could  but  stand 
Mirrored  by  an  artist's  hand, 
Or  inspire  a  poet's  theme, 
Man  would  think  it  but  a  dream. 

Luis  ALBA. 


VALENTINA. 

WHEN  he  should  chant  thy  wondrous  grace 
Dumb  would  the  singer's  music  be ; 
If  he  should  strive  to  picture  thee 

Never  a  line  could  artist  trace. 

For,  of  a  soul  so  fair  as  thine, 

How  could  the  semblance  e'er  be  true, 
If  the  glad  brush  that  painted  you 

Had  not  been  dipped  in  tints  divine, 

Or  if  the  poet's  lyre  had  known 

No  tones  save  those  of  earth  alone. 

MIGUEL  ULLOA. 


AMELIA. 

EARTH  was  a  bower  of  roses  rare  and  pale, 

And  heaven  a  starry  sea ; 
Through  the  soft  shadow  sang  the  nightingale 

His  wondrous  melody. 

'T  was    springtime,    and   the    dewy    dawn    was 
wet, — 

When  from  its  dreaming  stirred, 
The  flower's  soul  in  sweetness  rising  met 

The  bright  soul  of  the  bird  ; 
And  from  that  kiss  thy  loveliness  was  born  : 

Fair  shrine  that  doth  enclose 
The    song    bird's    voice,    the    gladness    of    the 
morn, 

The  perfume  of  the  rose. 

AURELIO  GARAY. 


CONCHA.1 

ABOVE  the  white  foam  and  the  azure  sea 

A  gleaming  shell  doth  float, 
And  the  bright  sun  that  glows  resplendently 

Kisses  the  fairy  boat. 

The  world  it  glads  with  beauty  does  not  know 

The  treasure  in  its  breast, — 
The  precious  pearl,  that  radiant  as  the  snow 

Within  its  heart  doth  rest. 

Sweet  Concha !  on  life's  sea  thy  beauty  rides 

And  man's  applause  doth  win; 
But  only  we  who  love  thee  know  it  hides 

A  fairer  pearl  within. 

Luis  G.  ORTIZ. 

1  Concha  is  at  once  the  name  of  a  shell,  and  the  di 
minutive  of  Concepcion. 


MARIA. 

IF,  mid  the  shades  on  high 

They  should  meet,  nor  know  her  name, 
"  Beatrice  !  "  would  Dante  exclaim  ; 
"  Leonora  !  "  would  Tasso  sigh. 


VIRGINIA. 

NOT  hers  are  her  graces, 
To  Gods  they  belong ! 
From  Venus  her  charms; 
Love  lent  her  his  arms ; 
The  Muse  who  presides 
Over  harmony's  tides 

Hath   shared  with    her   gladly  the   sceptre   of 
song. 

Morales,  the  Master, 

Doth  list  and  rejoice ; 
Says  :  "  More  than  Ulysses' 
My  fear  and  my  bliss  is; 
He  heard  but  the  ringing 
Of  Sirens'  sweet  singing ; 
I  know  the  full  charm  of  Virginia's  voice." 

AURELIO  GARAY. 


AN   ANSWER. 

"  AND  what  is  Poesy  ?  "  She  said, 
As  laughingly  she  questioned  me; 

"The  smile  upon  thy  lips;  the  red 
Ripe  bloom  upon  thy  cheek  so  fair ; 
The  glinting  of  thy  golden  hair; 
The  light  of  morning  in  thy  face ; 
Thy  soul,  thy  form,  thy  moving  grace  ; — 
Thou!     Thou  thyself  art  Poesy." 

MIGUEL  ULLOA. 


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JL  O   O  ;^i 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000821  511     3 


